Ten Thousand
by wisteria
Summary: The distance from Kampala to Sunnydale is approximately 10,000 miles. For Spike, it's far greater. (Completed)
1. The Cave

DISCLAIMER: Spike belongs to Mutant Enemy and all related entities. Most everything else is of my own creation.  
CATEGORIES: Spike. Road trip.   
RATING: PG-13 for language  
ARCHIVAL: My site only. Please feel free to link to it at www.alanna.net/btvs/10K/  
SPOILERS: Through "Grave"  
FEEDBACK: wisteria@smyrnacable.net 

SUMMARY: The distance from Kampala to Sunnydale is approximately 10,000 miles. For Spike, it's far greater.

* * *

**Ten Thousand**  
by wisteria

_1. The Cave_

* * *

  
The first thing he noticed was the quiet. 

It seemed to echo around the cave, like all the air had been vacuum-sealed out. He took a tentative breath and discovered that yes, there was still air around. Just not much of it. And hot too. Hot air, and he rather wished he could sweat to take the edge off it.

"You there?" Spike called out, but his voice echoed like the quiet.

Nothing.

This wasn't a surprise. After the laying-on of hands earlier, Lurky had literally vanished into thin air. Once Spike's eyes had readjusted from the, well, afterglow, the other demon was nowhere to be found. Spike couldn't say he missed him much, either.

He began to test his muscles, one by one. Sore, but nothing he hadn't managed in the past. The only unusual things he noticed were the bright spots still dancing in his field of vision, and a very sore chest. Electrical burns from the re-souling? Maybe. He stared down at his chest. A claw print was seared into his flesh. Hurt like a bitch, and he knew when something was going to leave a rare scar. Glory be.

Body checked out, at least. Now, onto the next part.

He closed his eyes and began to breathe. Didn't need to, but it helped to focus his mind.

Since he didn't have an adequate frame of reference, he thought of everything he'd imagined or feared would happen with a soul. 

_Slaughtering half the village outside._ Hmm. Not very appealing. 'Course, none of the townsfolk looked very appetizing anyway.

_A spot of torture before bedtime, maybe chaining up everyone who'd ever pissed him off. _Okay, that had a certain appeal, but he didn't think it had much to do with the soul.

_Seeing Buffy's face when he told her what he'd done for her._ Oh, that made him smile. Then again, it had been making him happy ever since he'd kick-started the bike and headed out of town. 

So, things didn't seem much different. Where was the big bolt-of-lighting change he'd expected? Wasn't he supposed to be huddled in a corner, tearing at a hairshirt and sobbing his guts out? 

He felt pretty damned fine. And very, very tired. 

Just a quick nap....

  
+++++  


The next thing he noticed when he awoke was a low bass thud. 

One hand flew to his chest, searching for a heartbeat. None there, thank God. Last thing he wanted was unexpected side effects besides the damned scar. Touching it was bad enough. Wincing like that made him feel like a fool.

He skulked along the wall toward the cave opening. Daylight had arrived outside, so he angled himself carefully in order to see what was going on. A grizzled woman, maybe twenty feet away, tapped on a drum. Felt like a heartbeat. 

She looked up at him before he could pull back into the shadows. Just stared, a serene look on her face. He stared back.

Then she raised an eyebrow and made the universal sound of "Ah."

"What?" he bellowed. 

She stared for a moment more, then turned back to her drum.

Spike ground his teeth and searched his brain, finally coming up with, "Wangi?" 

The woman continued to beat on the drum, then she said something he didn't understand. He repeated the question, but she ignored him.

"Sod off," he muttered. 

She glanced up quickly and grinned. One front tooth was missing, and when he looked closer, he realized she didn't look as old as he'd thought. Maybe forty, give or take. Weathered face, but that was probably to be expected if all she did was sit in the sun and beat that damned drum all day. 

He tried another phrase. "Wano waliwo amanyi olungereza?" 

She shook her head 'no', then got up and walked away. Spike growled. Stupid to think anyone here would speak English, anyway. 

The sun was warm and didn't look like it was going away anytime soon. He sighed and pulled from his pocket the Lugandan/English phrasebook he'd nicked at the airport. Best learn something besides how to say "What?", "No", and "Do you speak English?"

Spike sat close enough to the mouth of the cave to catch some of the ambient light.

Gonna be a long day.  


+++++  


The third thing he noticed was familiar words. In English. Brilliant!

"Is anybody in there?" The voice was female and heavily-accented. Young, maybe. Couldn't be the same woman from earlier. 

Spike stumbled to his feet, noticing that his legs weren't being very cooperative. His walk became a wobble when the sprained ankle from Flamey flared up. _Not makin' much of a first impression,_ he thought. 

Sure enough, the woman was young and wore blue jeans and a shirt that hugged her curves in all the right places. Long, dark braids and bright eyes. He might be Buffy-whipped, but he still knew how to appreciate an attractive bird.

"Who are you?" 

Standing out in the late afternoon sunlight, she stared back at him. People here seemed to do a hell of a lot of that.

"Hello? Speak English, do you?" Spike narrowed his eyes. This was getting ridiculous.

The woman narrowed her eyes right back. "I'll have you know that I've spoken English since I was an infant. Everyone does. It's the national language."

Spike laughed at her. "Could've fooled me. And what are you doing here, anyway?"

"You've passed the trials, so I have brought something for you." She had something in her hand, but he couldn't make it out. Didn't offer it to him either.

He clenched his fists; didn't do much good to punch a gift horse in the mouth, no matter how annoying she might be. And then there was the whole chip thing to consider. "Well? Get on with it. I'm not registered at Souls 'R' Us, but I hear they have some charming four-piece table settings." 

Finally, she held out a styrofoam coffee cup, foil stretched over the lid. She didn't look pleased to be handing it over, but he had no qualms about taking it anyway.

And he damned near did a happy dance when he peeled off the lid to see blood. Glorious blood. As he took a swig, his whole body relaxed. It'd been a long time since he'd finished off the last bag back in Kampala. 

She continued to stare at him, apparently not knowing how to do anything else. The set of her jaw and disdain in her eyes was so much like Buffy's that his stomach churned in spite of the blood. Damn, his mind cursed. Can't escape that attitude of hers even ten thousand miles away.

Looking away, he tipped the last of the blood down his throat and crumpled the cup in his hand.

Behind him, she spoke again, her voice softer this time. "That was left over from the animal we had for our meal today. I was told that a vampire was in this cave and that he was worthy of the blood."

"Thanks ever so." He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath to push away that mental image of Buffy, then he turned back around. "So, what's your name?"

Disdain flashed over to veiled fear. Oh, he could smell the endorphins even from six feet away. He knew them well, had lived on them for over a hundred years until The Chip Dynasty. 

And as her panic washed over him in waves, something else churned in his gut and slithered up his spine to push at the space between his eyes. Not a migraine from the chip, no. Something different.

_Had to be the blood,_ he thought. _Been too long, body's readjusting. That's gotta be it._

Through the chaos in his brain, he heard her say as if from a hundred yards away, "Forgive me, but you are a vampire. I'd rather you not know my family name or where we live."

_Ah, more like it._ "Is that right? Afraid I'm going to sneak in and go all Bogeyman on you?" 

Her panic abated a bit. In a louder voice, she replied, "I don't understand what a Boogie is. Also, you cannot come into my house unless I invite you, so I'll thank you for not threatening me."

This would've been a great time to get into game face and put her in her place, but Spike's heart just wasn't in it. Too damned tired after the trip and whatever the hell Ol' Lurky did to him. 

Charm might work better, anyway. It'd served him well in the past. He plastered a smile on his face and began to approach her. "So, love, since that blood hit the spot, any chance I could get a nice, thick blanket? Maybe an umbrella to go with it?" 

For all her steely resolve earlier, the woman in front of him melted in the hot sun. She looked all of seventeen now, not nearly as mature and self-assured as she'd seemed just a few minutes earlier. Eyelashes even fluttered, and Spike couldn't help but give himself a mental pat on the back. _Still got the touch, ol' boy._

"I shall bring one by later, after I escort my brothers home from school. Will you need anything else?" 

"That'll be just fine, pet." He kept the smile, though his cheeks were beginning to hurt. Still, it'd gotten him what he needed, so he could deal for a few more minutes. When he heard her footsteps recede, he remembered something else. "Oh, and a map of the area would be appreciated, if you've got one."

She raised a hand in acknowledgement as she walked away, her hips sashaying. 

_Yeah, feeling pretty damned good today._

+++++

It grew close to dusk, and Spike watched it from the same corner of the cave where he'd spent most of the day. The paintings along the walls were only interesting for about an hour, and the rest of the cave wasn't nearly as big as it looked. All in all, it was just dank and depressing, and it reminded him of his crypt back home. Funny how it had felt homey for two years, but now it was almost repulsive. Maybe when he got back he'd look into finding someplace else. Buffy would like that. She used to complain about the caviness of it all. God knows he'd do anything on earth to please her. 

All he could do right then, though, was sit and wait until he could leave the cave. The blanket was flimsy, and Spike could tell that it wouldn't do much good out in the sunlight. The sunset was already starting, but it didn't hold much appeal. The ones in California were much better.

He wished he'd brought a book or something. Getting lost inside his mind wasn't what he'd expected of the first twenty-four hours of souldom. 

Come to think of it, that was what he'd expected, but it hadn't played out quite the way he'd thought. He never did learn exactly what had happened to Angelus in those first moments. Spike had an idea, though. One minute they had been approaching the camp, singing drunken bastardized versions of Romanian folks songs. When he'd caught back up to Angelus after the melee, the git had been all snively and quiet. Gave the idiotic excuse that one of the peasant wenches had landed a kick to his head. Spike had seen the lost, empty look in ol' Granddaddy's eyes, all the same. It hadn't bothered him at the time; he had been too busy painting obscene caricatures in blood on Drusilla's face. Glorious times, those. 

Things were never the same afterward; at least, not with Angelus.

A hundred years hence, and Spike still remembered. The little things passed him by, flickering in and out of his brain like mosquitoes, unworthy of commemoration. The big things, though? Well, you don't forget those, especially if you're a vampire who can play moments over and over in your head for years to come. 

Spike sometimes thought he should've kept a diary or whatnot. All the big things were great, sure, but he kind of wanted to remember the first time he'd seen Istanbul, the time when Drusilla nicked one of her dozens of companions for Miss Edith, or even the first hints of a smile playing across Buffy's lips when he made love to her. He'd had such high hopes in those early days with her. Thought he'd be seeing more smiles in the future.

Yeah, things were never the same afterward.

Last night - the whole way from Sunnydale, even - he'd psyched himself up. Had to get that steely determination in place so that he could endure whatever Lurky tossed at him. Spike had known it was necessary, because once he got the soul, the fall would be awful. Was ready to take it on, no matter how bad it would be.

So much for that. No mirrors nearby, not that they'd do much good, but Spike knew he didn't look lost because he didn't feel lost. Couldn't say he felt great, yet he didn't feel awful either. Mostly, he just felt sore and flinchy, what with the burns and bruises. And confused. Definitely confused.

Ever since Local Girl dropped the blanket inside the mouth of the cave a few hours ago, he'd been forced to sit and stare. Nothing else to do, except watch the village blokes go about their daily routine out in the sun. He started naming them, but gave up after he couldn't come up with anything more creative than "Bastard 1", "Git 2" and so forth. Not that they all looked alike, just Spike's buggering myopia. Specs tended to ruin the Big Bad image. 

Once that proved tiresome, he'd started trying to conjure up some old memories. Began a list of "Ten Best Nights with Drusilla", getting up to number seven before it depressed the hell out of him. Maybe that was the soul. Dancing over the body of some drained peon just didn't hold the same magic that it used to.

It was getting dark, but not dark enough yet for him to be able to go outside. He was itching to leave. The forced introspection held little charm, and Spike had never been one to sit around and do nothing.

At least the coming sunset skewed the shadows such that he could edge closer to the cave entrance. Bastards number 9 and 21 were building a bonfire on the beach. Probably to cook something or boil water. Whatever. They didn't seem much like the beer bongs and bikinis sort. 

Spike stood up and stretched his legs and arms. The bruises were already fading, and his chest wasn't as sore as it had been earlier. A claw print still showed. Maybe it'd leave a scar. When he finally got back to Sunnydale, he could pull open his shirt and press Buffy's palm against it. _See what I did for you, love? Was it enough? _

Buffy.

His four hours of deliberately not thinking about her were now over. The first memory that flashed into his mind was her face as she screamed at him in her bathroom, after he'd done... that. God, no. Mustn't remember that. _There be monsters,_ it screamed in his brain like a warning scrawled in blood. 

It was too much. Way too much. Lightning crackled in his veins and he smashed his fist into the cave wall. The pain in his bloody hand took the edge off the pain in his heart. _Right. Good,_ he told himself. _Hurt yourself so you can stop thinking about hurting her._

Was that the soul? While he wiped his hand on his jeans, he considered that. He finally decided no, since self-flagellation of both the physical and emotional variety had become a standard routine for him ever since he'd left Sunnydale a week ago.

Once the spots stopped dancing over his eyes, Spike looked up and saw the bonfire blokes staring at him. 

"Bugger off!" he yelled at time. They didn't flinch, so Spike added a dozen more choice phrases since Local Girl had said they all spoke English. 

Then the men had the gall to start laughing. Spike gritted his teeth and skulked back into the recesses of the cave. Shit. He was already going to be the laughingstock of the vampire world with this new soul of his. Now he'd get to expand his horizons to include the human world too.

For the thirtieth time, he asked himself why the hell he'd subjected himself to this.

Buffy.

Everything always came back to her.

"Well, Spike," he said aloud, psyching himself back up. "Not gonna do much good getting broody, now is it? Look what it did to ol' Angelus. Ain't many worse fates than turning out like him, all grimaces and bad hair. You can still be a badass vampire, no matter what that poncy demon said last night. The soul's just window dressing. Right? Right!" 

It almost worked. He could feel his chest puffing up, even as he winced from the burns. 

As the shadows continued to shift into night outside, he started making a new list: _Ten Times I Saw Buffy Being Happy. _

He began the list in a pretty good mood. Got all the way to number six, then he hit a roadblock when he couldn't think of any more examples. That brought on the Brood Fairy. Spike wondered if the list's failure was because she was never happy these days, or because she was never happy with him. 

He closed his eyes. It was too much to think about. 

_Yeah, that was the soul._

"Fuck all," he muttered to himself. It was finally dark enough outside for him to leave. He shoved his wad of money far down in his pocket, pulled on his shirt, and checked his back pocket for his forged passport and keys to the bike. 

Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

* * *

END, Chapter One.

wisteria@smyrnacable.net

  



	2. Kampala

* * *

**Ten Thousand**  
by wisteria

_2. Kampala_

* * *

_Right. Airport. Just where he was supposed to be. Ditch the bike, buy a one-way ticket to L.A., connections in Cairo and Frankfurt. Home again. From zero to soul in 6.3 days flat._

That was the plan, at least.

Straddling the cycle, he stared at the direction signs in English, the electricity inside flickering like a crazed firefly. "Departures", "Parking", "City Centre." Spike turned to growl at the driver who swerved around him.

A huge bug divebombed his face, and Spike winced, doing a ridiculous fluttery dance to get rid of it. When it was finally gone, he found that he couldn't open his eyes again. Or maybe he just didn't want to.

His own personal penny arcade played over the backs of his eyelids. _Buffy taunting him. Telling him to leave. Screaming that she could never love him._ The images were Technicolor-bright, blinding him. 

Spike blinked back the tears that were the curse of his existence. "Soggy fop," he berated himself. He looked up at the "Departures" sign, the words glowing fuzzy in his blurred vision. But he could still clearly see Buffy's face in her bathroom, hating him more than he ever thought possible. What kind of fool was he to think that he could just show up on her doorstep with a soul, and all would be right as rain? 

_No. Couldn't go home yet._

+++++

The "Welcome to Uganda" brochure he'd skimmed on the flight from Cairo said that the average June temperature was 25 Celsius, with a cool breeze coming off the mountains and Lake Victoria. Spike decided he would sue the Ugandan Tourist Board for false advertising.

Humanity seethed around him. People running hither and yon, shopping bags and baskets perched on their hips or over their heads. Some kids kicking a football in a dilapidated playground. A woman beating another damned drum. Hell, maybe it was the same woman from the village. Free exchange of goods, groceries, clothing. People going about their daily lives. Just another market evening in Africa. 

And Spike had a plan.

He followed some white tourists across the square. Didn't know whether they were American or what, not that he much cared. Two women and a man, dressed in stereotypical safari khakis, their overladen backpacks nearly tipping them over. When he got closer, Spike saw "L.L. Bean" stamped over the luggage, and their dusty sandals were definitely expensive. Rich folks playing at the rustic life.

They didn't disappoint, though, leading him to just where he wanted to go: a stall decorated with multi-national flags and a computer-printed sign proclaiming, "Welcome, tourists!" 

Spike lurked off to the side, eavesdropping as the Safari Folks surveyed the goods and asked the shopkeeper in condescending tones, "Do you have anything better?"

Spike rolled his eyes. Shopboy was far more polite, giving them a strained smile. He showed them nearly everything in his stall, devoting almost half an hour to them until the tourists finally meandered away, empty-handed of purchases. Shopboy stared after them then began to put away all the things he'd taken out to display.

"Bloody fucking bastards, toying with that man like that! May you rot in a hell dimension for fourteen millennia, until you're brought back to this one again, where I'll kick your ass to fucking Jupiter!" 

_Okay, yeah, maybe that was the soul._

Spike screamed this in Fyarl, not English. He didn't much want to be deported. Did get a few stares from some locals, who probably wondered why the hell this albino guy was growling and howling. He shrugged it off and approached Shopboy.

"Look, bloke, I need a backpack. Nothing big or fancy, just something sturdy I can use to haul stuff around. Maybe strap it to my motorcycle. Whatever."

Shopboy smiled, probably pleased to help someone who acted like a reasonable human instead of a... whoops, never mind. 

The bag he produced for inspection was neon yellow, with blue trim and a metal skeleton along the back. The colors were loud enough to wake the dead, which was probably good because Spike would be traveling at night and couldn't afford to fall asleep on the road or anything. It reminded him of something, but he couldn't figure out what.

It was cheap, too. Spike handed over the equivalent of $6.50 in Ugandan Shillings, plus a few extra as a tip. Still felt sorry for the bloke. 

Then he was on his way. Spike couldn't decide whether to sling the bag over his shoulder like a teenaged git or hold it in front of him like a nerdy git. So, he settled for tucking it under his left arm and holding his chin high. Only half-git that way. 

As he crossed the square toward his next destination, he glanced down at the bag again, and it hit him why it seemed so familiar. Dawn had a backpack just like it, though he was sure hers had cost five times as much. He still remembered watching her set off to school last year, back bowed from the weight of the pack. Kept telling her not to carry so many books, or she'd get scoliosis. But she'd just grin back at him and call out, "Yeah, whatever, Spikey! See you when I get home." 

Good times, those, at least when he wasn't thinking about Buffy.

He wondered what Dawn would carry this year, and if he'd be there when she got home every day.

+++++

While he stood in the alley behind the main hospital in Kampala, Spike debated whether to dye his hair. All that paleness shone like a 60-watt bulb there in Equatorial Africa, not that he wanted to blend in or anything, but it still made him feel odd. Besides, if he was supposed to be New-and-Improved, Souled Spike, why not go for broke and reinvent himself? 

Problem was, he'd grown quite attached to the hair, and a big change like that wasn't one to be taken lightly, so to speak. He finally decided to think about it some more before he made any rash decisions. He was thinking of heading up to Europe soon, and the blond would fit right in when he got to Berlin. 

Ah, Berlin. Loved that city.

God, his brain was going in a million different places at once. Maybe he had ADD or something like that. Or maybe he was just going divvy from the lack of blood. It'd been way too long since he'd had a good dose of A-positive, and even though Local Girl's cuppa had been decent, it wasn't enough to sustain him for very long.

So there he was, stuck in an alley by Kampala General, waiting for some corruptible-looking orderly to come out for a bribe. 

By the second hour of lurking, Spike was damn near delirious. He'd never been good at this sort of thing, but he couldn't see many other options at present. Fortunately, a young guy came out just in the proverbial nick of time. 

Spike beckoned him over and pulled the equivalent of two hundred bucks out of his pocket. "Speak English?" 

Orderly Jr. nodded, and his eyes were already staring at the cash Spike was waving under his nose.

"Right. Here's what I need you to do. Listen carefully." Spike's voice was at its best menace. Felt rather good. "Take this bag and go inside to where the doctors keep the blood supply. Get me twenty bags - doesn't matter which type. When you bring them out, you get the cash."

The guy kept staring, transfixed, and Spike fought the urge to slap him to lucidity. As far as he could tell, the chip still worked. 

Finally, he gave up and growled, "Toddle off, then. I'll be waiting."

Well, that worked quite well. Spike was irritated, though, to realize that he'd learned the bribery technique from a year of Buffy and Giles shoving money at him right and left. Ah, the good old days, when things were far less complicated.

Once Orderly Jr. was inside, Spike leaned back against the wall and started the waiting game again. Checking to make sure that nobody was watching, he pulled the wad of money out of his pocket and counted it. He still had about a thousand dollars in cash, both in dollars and shillings. The pre-paid Visa card had almost twelve thousand, after all he'd spent on the plane fare and the motorcycle. 

It was all supposed to be for Buffy. 

Fat lot of good the Suvolte mess did him. The demon had offered him $30,000 cash, half up front. Spike hadn't wanted to know where it had gotten the money; all he could think about at the time was that the cash would make Buffy's life so much easier. Even if she didn't like him any more than she already did - which wasn't saying much - it would at least save her having to slowly kill herself at the burger joint. He'd had it all planned out: stash the eggs in the crypt per the arrangement with the Suvolte, hand them over when finished, then find a way to get the money to Buffy without her knowing, because she'd never have taken it if she knew where and who it had come from. 

Didn't she know that he'd do anything for her? 

And what had he gotten out of the fiasco? Destroyed home, destroyed relationship and destroyed trust. Not that it was ever really a relationship, or that she'd ever really trusted him. Still hurt like hell. The demon was dead before it could make good on the rest of the deal, and since he couldn't very well give it back, Spike was stuck with $15,000 and everything he'd wanted it for gone.

At least it was enough to get him here. If he was careful, it'd be enough to get him home.

Back to the same world of destruction, this time with Buffy trusting him even less than she had the day she broke up with him. 

Spike banged his head on the wall behind him, and he welcomed the pain. Why the hell had he even done all this? A bloody, buggering fool is what he was.

God, he needed that blood now. Maybe it would set his brain straight again.

After another twenty minutes of Spike's self-flagellation, Orderly Jr. finally reappeared. 

"I was able to get your twenty bags, Sir," he said, thrusting the now-heavy backpack into Spike's arms. "Why do you want it?"

Spike muttered, "You don't want to know, mate." He opened the bag to check. Everything looked to be in order. He shoved the rest of the cash into the other man's hands, and started walking away into the darkness of the muggy Kampala night.

One more stop, then he could find a place to crash and wallow in his depression some more.

+++++

"Cheers, thanks," Spike told the maid who opened the front door and showed him inside. He still had the standing invite from when he'd first arrived in Kampala, at least.

The apartment was sparsely furnished, and Spike had to wonder why the guy even needed a maid. Guess that was how things went here. 

When he walked into the living area, the occupant looked up and said, "Who are you?"

Spike narrowed his eyes. "It's Spike. Hello? I was just here two days ago." 

"You sure about that? 'Cause you look totally different. And eeuw, don't tell me they're handing out dripping pustules and facial deformities with souls these days. If that's the case, my apologies."

As Spike's hands flew up to his face, the other guy burst out laughing. Between chuckles, he said, "Gotcha."

Spike growled and sat down, grabbing some peanuts from the bowl on the coffee table. "So what's with the maid, Whistler?"

He shrugged out of his coat and plopped down in the chair opposite. "Beats me. I saw her yesterday down at the market. She was looking all forlorn and such, so I thought I'd be a good guy and offer her a job."

"Haven't done much with the place, have you? Hell, I live in a crypt and I've done better than you have." Spike looked around the room. Totally bland and uncomfortable, but something told him that it fit.

Whistler held out his hands as if showing off. "Don't like it? But it's the latest in Martha Stewart's Safari '02 collection. Got it at the local K-Mart when I moved in."

"Yeah, you look like the K-Mart type. Is that where you got that godawful shirt?"

Whistler laughed, and Spike couldn't help but grin too. "Gee, thanks. You sound just like Angel."

That wiped Spike's grin away. "You know Angel?"

"Heck, yeah. He and I go way back. I weaned him off rats." 

Last thing he wanted was to be sitting in this flat, talking about Angel, but now Spike was curious. "Sounds like good ol' Grandpa. Can't say I miss him much at all. In fact, I hate the bastard."

Whistler sat forward in his chair. "I thought you found out about me from Angel."

"No...?"

"Gotta love fate, then." Whistler tossed a peanut into his mouth, and Spike rather admired his technique. "Good ol' Powers that Be rang me up the other day and said there was a vamp who wanted a soul, and I should set him up with the local guy who does that sort of thing. When you showed up, I just figured it was Angel who told you where to find me, though I didn't know he knew I was doing the Africa thing now. So, where did you find out about me?"

All of this was confusing the hell out of Spike. He ran a hand through his hair, hoping to get rid of the headache it was inducing. "Friend of mine, Zanine demon by the name of Clem. You know him?"

"Nope, sorry."

"Well, anyway," Spike continued, "things were going to shit back at home, and I decided only way out was to get a soul. So Clem said that he knew of some guy in Kampala who could get me one. Gave me your address."

"Oh, CLEM!" Whistler laughed. "Yeah, I know him. Well, I don't know him, really. Knew his cousin though. Wow, what a mess that was."

Damned headache kept getting stronger. "So you knew all this was going to get fucked up, but you did it anyway?"

The maid entered the room, but Whistler smiled and waved her away. "Jump to conclusions, much? Look, I just do what The Powers that Be tell me to do. I don't know how they found out about you, but they told me that some vamp was heading over, and that they'd deemed him worthy of a soul. And then you showed up at my doorstep. Maybe they're also the ones who nudged Clem into telling you about me. Beats me. I've worked for those guys for two hundred years, and I still don't have a clue what's going on with them."

This was all too much. Spike got up and began pacing through the small room. "But this was MY decision!" He tapped his chest for emphasis, then winced again from the burn marks. "I'm the one who wanted to get a soul, not some buggering Gods!"

"Hey! Back off. It was your decision, but you've gotta know that Angel was supposed to be the only one. That's what all the Powers' handbooks say, and they're the ones who ultimately get to decide, not you. If they didn't want you to have one, things would've gotten really screwed up in that cave. So for them to decide you were worthy too - wow." Whistler chuckled in disbelief. "I have to hand it to you, Spike. You must've impressed the hell out of them."

Spike collapsed back into the chair. Too bad aspirin didn't work on vampires, because he could've used about a dozen right then. "Fine. Whatever. I'm worthy. Big sodding deal. It was still my decision to make."

"Now you're getting it," Whistler replied, a little too indulgently for Spike's tastes.

The room was quiet for a minute or so. 

"So, how's the soul working out for you?" 

Spike shrugged. "A waste so far. I haven't noticed anything different. Felt a bit guilty about some stuff, but I already did before I came here."

"Yeah, I heard that about you. Pretty empathetic guy, helping out others and so on. You even kill other vampires, just like Angel. I've gotta say, that whole resouling thing with him threw us for a loop."

"Stop bringing him up! Ponces, both of you." Spike growled for effect.

Whistler grinned again and made a show of backing up, hands raised in surrender. "Also heard you were really touchy, like a fifteen-year-old with PMS."

Given what he knew about fifteen-year-olds - Dawn, at least - Spike didn't take that as a compliment. "If you're just going to insult me, I'll leave."

"Then why are you here?"

"I want to know more about the soul. Figured you were the one to ask, since ol' Lurky wasn't forthcoming."

The other guy settled back in his chair. "I was waiting for you to bring him up. Judgment Demons are a nasty sort, and he loves playing games. I'm surprised you got out of it in one piece. I mean, the Powers knew you'd get the soul in the end, but I thought you'd be more messed up."

Spike held his chin high. "Passed every test, I did. Knew I could take him on."

"Martha?" He called out, and the maid appeared within seconds. "Go down to the market and get me some hors d'ouevres. We're gonna throw a party for our friend Spike, here."

"No," Spike ordered the maid, and to Whistler, he said, "Sod off."

Martha disappeared around the corner.

"Your choice," Whistler said with another of the grins that were becoming damned annoying. "You got the soul. Good for you. What else did you get?"

Spike did a double-take. "What do you mean, what else?"

"Well, that's the thing about Judgment Demons. They give you both what you wish for and what you fear."

That was news to Spike, and he didn't like the sound of it. "Huh? You didn't say nothing about that."

Whistler took another handful of peanuts, and Spike wondered how he could be so nonchalant when his words sounded so foreboding. "The demon didn't ask you. I'm not surprised - he never does. But he can figure those things out. So, what, you told him you wished for a soul. He gave you one."

"Right."

"Then there's the big question: was the soul what you wanted or what you feared?"

Spike squirmed in frustration. "It's what I wanted, you nit! Come on, I told you that when I was here the other day."

A look of intense wisdom passed over Whistler's face. "Then what do you fear?"

Good question. He thought about it for a moment, then finally said, "Not being good enough for her."

"Well, damn. I should've known this was all for a woman." Whistler got a look of conspiratorial interest, like the two of them were shooting the breeze at a pub. "So, she's worth the soul?"

That simple question made Spike melt into his memories. "Yeah. Bloody brilliant, she is, though she doesn't know it. Strong too. She can kick my ass from here to eternity, and when I'm holding her, it's like everything else melts away. But she's got it in her head that I'm worthless, that I can't be trusted. Says she can't love me because of that. I did something to her that was really awful, so I decided I had to get a soul to keep it from happening again."

"She sounds like a winner." Whistler cocked his head to the side. "I don't get it, though. She's a vampire, right? So what difference does a soul make?"

"She's human. They seem to think souls are important, for some stupid reason. It's all Buffy kept talking about."

Whistler's mouth formed a perfect 'O'. "No shit! You're in love with the Slayer? Whoa. The Powers that Be never told me that."

That got Spike's attention, snapping him out of his nostalgia-induced trance. "You know her?"

"Heck, yeah. I was there during the Acathla mess. Wait, now I get why you seemed familiar the other day." He sat back in his chair. "Wow, will wonders never cease. Thought I knew everything, but this is definitely a surprise."

Spike didn't know quite what to say; being at a loss for words was a new experience. He thought about asking Whistler to elaborate, but decided he just wasn't in the mood for it. The room was too hot and he was crawling out of his skin. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since the soul thing, and he was just plain exhausted.

Once the silence stretched to uncomfortable levels, Whistler finally said, "So, you did all this for Buffy, huh? Gotta say, you've got a tough job ahead of you."

"You think I don't know that?" Spike closed his eyes. "You think that if there was a way I could do this without having to get a fucking soul, I would've done it?"

Whistler didn't respond, and Spike ran a hand over his forehead; the headache was becoming unbearable, rivaling any he'd had when hitting a human. Finally, all he could say was, "Shit."

"Yeah." 

Both of them just sat there again. For two people who talked so much, Spike was surprised how quiet they could be. 

Then Whistler said, "What'd you do that was so bad that a soul isn't going to cut it?"

Spike opened his eyes, then grimaced at the bright lamplight. "Sorry, mate. Some topics are off-limits. And don't go askin' your Powers or whatever to find out for you." 

"I got it. Won't go there." He reached over for the peanuts, but the bowl was empty. "You got your wish: the soul. The demon also gave you what you fear: that it won't make you good enough for her. I don't know what you did to give you that idea, but it must've been pretty terrible."

Again, all Spike could say was, "Yeah."

"Can't say I envy your future, William." 

Spike almost butted in to ask how the guy knew his other name, but he just didn't feel like it. Probably more of that Powers that Be shit.

Whistler stood up. "Look, it's getting late and the sun'll be up before long. Crash here on my sofa. You can stay here until sunset tomorrow, and then you get to go off on your big quest." He hummed a few bars from Monty Python and the Holy Grail for good measure.

"Which is what, Brave, Brave Sir Robin?"

The demon reached down and picked up a pillow, tossing it toward Spike. 

"You get to make yourself good enough for the Slayer."

* * *

END, Chapter Two.

  
wisteria@smyrnacable.net 


	3. The Nile

NOTE: As of June 29, chapters 1-9 are up on ff.net. Because the chapter-forwarding feature isn't working, just type "http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=830838&chapter=4" and so on to get to the new chapters :).  
  


* * *

**Ten Thousand**  
by wisteria

_3. The Nile_

* * *

  
Spike had no idea where Whistler had gotten mac 'n cheese – the good kind, with the foil packet of Velveeta – in Uganda of all places, but he was damned grateful anyway. The stuff had never tasted so good, and Lord knows he'd had enough crappy macaroni last summer when he was Dawn-sitting.  
  
It was good to be around another demon with a taste for American junk food. Clem was the only non-human back in Sunnydale who didn't make fun of it.   
  
Ah, homesickness. Spike figured that he was officially homesick, but things were still screwed up enough back there that after having far too long to think about it that afternoon, he decided he was best off staying away for the time being.   
  
It was because of the nightmares.  
  
Never really had been the nightmare sort. Hell, Buffy and her cartoon friends would say that his whole existence was a nightmare, sod 'em. Back in the day, what they would've considered bad dreams, he'd just called "fun yet to have."  
  
But as he tossed and turned on the crappy sofa in Whistler's living room, he had nightmares. In them, he was doing things like beating Buffy senseless, turning Dawn, watching and laughing as the whole world exploded into flames. God, so much had changed for him in the past two years. Weren't those supposed to be good dreams for the average vampire?   
  
He would've said that it was the soul, except he'd been having dreams like that since he left Sunnydale five days ago. On the way to Frankfurt, he royally pissed off the rather charming flight attendant who had done such a good job of keeping him in a dark corner of the cabin. Woke everyone up with his screams, and ended up huddled under a crappy plane blanket for the last four hours of the trip.   
  
Part of him wanted to go back and make things right again, to tell Buffy that even if she never wanted to see him again – even if she followed up by shoving a stake in his chest – he would never again be the kind of man who could do such things to her.   
  
The other part of him was scared shitless by the prospect of facing her or any of them again. Fear of what they thought of him was a strange new emotion. He didn't think he liked it, but there it was, all the same.   
  
Whistler got up and went into the kitchen for more tea. When he'd left, Spike glanced over at the phone again. For twenty minutes after he'd awakened from the latest batch of nightmares, he'd had his hand on the phone, trying to decide whether to call them. He wondered what was going on there. Things had been a bloody mess when he left, and not just because of the whole bathroom thing. Most of it had to do with him, what with the Anya screw-up and Dawn hating him.   
  
Better to just stay away, but he couldn't stop staring at the phone. He wanted to know for sure.  
  
Whistler came back in with a fresh pot, and Spike's attention was drawn away from the phone. Good. Another attempt diverted. Not knowing was better than the alternative; at least this way he could imagine rather than know for sure that everyone was happier he was gone.  
  
"So, where are you gonna go?" Whistler asked around a mouthful of tea.  
  
"Huh?" Spike refilled his own mug. Bloke could make a damn good cuppa, he had to admit.   
  
"Unless you're planning to pay rent, you're going to have to vacate. I'm due in South Korea soon. Something about demon soccer fans who are trying to throw the World Cup for the Brazilians. Me, I couldn't care less, but The Powers That Be are big England fans."  
  
Spike chuckled for the first time in hours, and it felt kind of good. "As well they should be."  
  
"Seriously, though. You're probably dying to get back to the Slayer. Gotta show off that shiny new soul of yours." He shook his head. "Man, still can't believe that, of all the girls in the world, you're with her."  
  
All Whistler had to do to snap Spike out of his funk was bring up Buffy. Figured. "She's bloody amazing. Even if I'd never touched her, I'd still want to be around her. That's the sort of woman she is."  
  
"I'll take your word on that one. Only time I've ever been face-to-face with her, she knocked me into a wall." He paused and Spike laughed. Whistler continued, "Saw her once before that, but not all that much. So yeah, never really seen the softer side of the Slayer. Or of Sears, for that matter, but that's another story."   
  
Spike took a long sip of the tea, feeling the way it flowed down his throat like honey. Good stuff. Better than blood, even. "She's got magnificent –"  
  
"—Tracts of land?"   
  
That earned Whistler a loud laugh. Just thinking about her made Spike almost happy again. "I was going to say 'reflexes'. Girl can fight better than I can, and I've had a century of practice. I'm supposed to want to kill this Slayer like the other two I did in, but when we go out patrolling, I'm right there trying to dust anyone who'd dare lay a finger on her. And she's so good at it that there's no vampires left for me to kill once she's through with 'em."  
  
Absence did make the heart grow fonder, even if the nightmares wouldn't leave him alone. When he snapped out of the memory-fuzz and looked up, Whistler was gone. He came back with one of the blood bags Spike had stashed in the fridge. Spike took it with a nod of thanks, and poured it in the empty glass next to the teapot.   
  
Whistler sat down and finished off the macaroni, then dunked a French fry into some ketchup. The demon ate more human food than Spike did, but Spike was glad for it. Sure beat all the crap the vendors were selling down in the market yesterday.   
  
"Gotta say I'm surprised, Spike. I never would've expected that little kid to get so good at her job. Hell, I remember telling Angel that she was going to have a tough time of it."   
  
That got Spike's attention. "What do you mean?"  
  
Whistler shoved another fry in his mouth. "Angel and I were there when she got called. Man, she was just a kid. Looked like a cheerleader or someone you'd see in one of those stupid teen sitcoms. I didn't think she was strong enough to hold a tube of lipstick – and she was definitely the lipstick type – much less a stake. Guess it goes to show that people will prove you wrong each time."  
  
All of this was fascinating to Spike, but he wasn't sure he wanted to hear more. The trip down memory lane was great at first, but now just thinking about Buffy was getting to him. Too much to handle. Too many thoughts of what she could've been if her life hadn't gotten so bloody dark in the past year.   
  
So he sat back on the sofa, pressing a hand to his temple. He felt another headache coming on.  
  
The two men were silent for a little while longer; Spike was glad that as talky as Whistler could get, he also seemed to know when to keep mum.  
  
After a while, Whistler repeated his earlier question. "Where are you gonna go?"  
  
"Dunno." Spike took a deep breath; the taste of blood and tea was still in his throat. "I thought I was going to go straight back to Sunnydale, but now I think I want to just lay low for a while and figure all of this out."  
  
"Good plan. Not that I want to kick you out, but it's getting close to sunset. If you're going to leave, now's the time." A pause, then, "You thinking of heading north?"  
  
Spike realized he hadn't given it much thought. It hit him that he'd briefly pondered going up to Berlin again and maybe stop in Athens to see someone, but that was a hell of a long way away. So he just said, "Yeah."  
  
Whistler walked over to a table near the front door. "For my money, I'd go with driving up the Nile. Great scenery. Locals who don't ask questions or speak much English. Cairo is a good town, and you can get a ferry there over to Greece, if that's your speed. I've got a map here if you want it."   
  
He tossed it over, and Spike said, "Thanks."  
  
"For what it's worth, I haven't heard anything else about you from the Powers. Lucky for you, I guess they're done with you for the time being." He went back over to his chair, then said, "So now it's all up to you."  
  
Spike ran a finger along the crease of the map, but he kept his eyes closed. "Yeah, it's all up to me."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Nearly an inch of dust and grime coated his entire body – over the clothes, at least. When he arrived in Aswan two nights after leaving Kampala, Spike was dying to find a place where he could shower and buy some new togs, not necessarily in that order. Unfortunately, Egypt wasn't up on Americana like 24-hour Wal-Marts.  
  
There was only one option left.  
  
He checked into the Isis Palace Resort at 2 a.m., rather enjoying the feeling of signing the credit card receipt. Made him feel like a rich guy. A vampire checking into a resort was bizarre beyond measure, but Spike swallowed the potential embarrassment. Didn't know why, but he was just in a mood to be somewhere nice for a change – well, someplace that wasn't coated in dust like yesterday's hovel in Khartoum.   
  
Instead of going straight over to the bungalow he'd hired, he skulked around the main building until he found the guest laundry facilities. The lock was easy to jimmy. The tourists here were wealthy enough that they'd never miss a shirt or two.  
  
Dismal pickings. He felt like a prat in khaki pants and white shirt that didn't fit quite right, but damned if he was going to get caught naked if some security guard stumbled in. He shoved his own clothes in the washer and sat down to wait.  
  
Bored out of his mind, he grabbed the wet clothes from the washer when it stopped, and followed directions to the bungalow. Let the clothes air-dry or whatever; Spike just wanted to be somewhere where he could sit comfortably and do absolutely nothing. With every step, his body vibrated from the hum of the cycle. He liked the bike well enough, but not for two days straight.  
  
And when he got to the bungalow... well, it definitely beat the crypt. It wasn't especially fancy, but it had a large bed, decent sofa, and full bath. Even a little icebox for the blood.  
  
Spike went to it first, unzipping the backpack and opening the fridge. Then the first smile since Kampala spread over his face.  
  
A mini-bar.  
  
He shoved the little bottles aside after taking out a Stoli, then began to stack the bags. Still had fourteen, which should last him until Cairo.  
  
Once that was done, he unscrewed the vodka bottle and emptied it in one dose. He could feel it go down each centimeter of his throat, and God, it felt good. Thank heavens for hotels in Muslim countries that catered to Western tourists. He refilled the bottle with water, letting himself sway a bit with the first hit of alcohol after days without it.  
  
Still felt dirty, though. He stripped off the ugly stolen clothes and went into the bathroom decorated with the best in '70s chic. And that's when it hit him.  
  
Spike didn't know why it was such a shock to see an empty mirror, but it was. It brought back memories that were both good and bad.  
  
_Stealing into Buffy's bedroom on the night of her twenty-first birthday and surprising her as she stood in front of the full-length mirror. Watching the lightning-quick flash of happiness play over her features when he touched her, until she smoothed out her face into a moue of annoyance. Feeling her acquiesce to his touch, as they both stared at her reflection. He had run his fingers through her hair, over her breasts and down her belly, and the intrigue and bemusement on her face didn't lie, even as the hands in the mirror pushed at the air and shoved him away._  
  
Yeah, that had been a good moment.  
  
But tonight, he didn't see anything in the mirror, even though he was there, touching his chest as if to reassure himself that he existed.   
  
The thought entered his head before he could push it away:  
  
_Should've told Lurky that I wanted to be human.  
_  
Spike stared down at his body, then up at the reflection that wasn't there.  
  
"Bugger that," he growled at the mirror. He yanked on the shower spigot, stepping inside to let the hot water wash away the grime and help him forget.  
  
As one hand rubbed soap over his arms and legs and then between, his body began to remember her. He sighed and continued. Made his flesh feel a little better, but made his heart feel worse.  
  
The hot Nile water sluiced away the tears.  
  


* * *

  
  
As hot as southern Egypt was during the day, at night a cool breeze came off the Nile and made everything feel softer. Although the hotel was only a couple of miles from the Aswan city center, it felt a world away from everything dark and modern. The Isis Palace had been built twenty-five years earlier, and it felt like the last days of disco, with its washed-out beiges and chipped gold paint. It might never pass muster back in America, but it had an air of permanence, of the trends that had passed it by while it remained solid on the banks of the Nile.  
  
This was the peace that Spike found during his five nights in Aswan.  
  
It wasn't entirely peaceful, though. On the second night, he fell asleep on the balcony as he watched the moonlight reflect off the river. Woke up the next morning when the ambient light startled him. He didn't get burnt, thanks to the fact that the chair was far enough back that the direct sunlight didn't reach him. But it was alarming, all the same.  
  
Just after dusk on the third night, he ventured into town. The daily market was beginning to wind up, but Spike found a vendor who sold him two whole chickens. When he got back to the hotel, Spike drained the blood and drank it slowly, saving some for later. After two years in Sunnydale, the animal blood felt more real to him than the human stuff still chilling in the icebox.  
  
He read books that he borrowed from people drinking at the hotel bar and sitting on the benches along the riverbank. Then when those were read, he bought some more at kiosks under city streetlights. None of the books were very interesting, but they helped pass the time.  
  
Spike found that he liked the solitude of not knowing anyone and not having to explain himself. It gave him time to think, to figure out what the soul meant to him and what differences it would create in his life. After five days of solitude, he realized that he still had no idea.   
  
At the end of the fifth night, he went to bed feeling unsettled and antsy. As he struggled to get to sleep, he wondered if his body was craving the chaos that he thought he was briefly escaping.  
  


* * *

  
  
_Buffy was atop him, rising and falling in that liquid way of hers. She kept saying his name like a chant, and he listened for any endearment in her voice. All he heard was anger. He reached up and tried to pull her close, to feel her soft hair on his cheek, but she shoved him away.  
  
And then she froze, staring down at him with flushed cheeks and wild eyes. The room grew still, and he heard a faint thud. It wasn't her heartbeat; he knew that one well, and would let the memory of it lull him to sleep when he was alone.  
  
She narrowed her eyes, and he stopped moving inside her, waiting for what she might do.  
  
Then she burst into laughter. "Your heart is beating."   
  
His hand flew to his chest. He felt the heartbeat.   
  
She rose up and slammed down on him, the laughter shifting into anger. As she moved, she taunted, "Did you really think that would be enough? That you could get a soul and become human, and it would make me want you?"  
  
Spike's eyes widened in horror. A heartbeat? No! That's not what he wanted! He just wanted her.   
  
But it was too late to tell her that. Her hands slapped at his face and shoulders. With each blow, she yelled, "You're dirt! A thing! You'll never be good enough for me!"  
  
He tried to clutch her to him, to show her that it was enough. That he still loved her.   
  
And then she grabbed a stake, pressing it into his chest hard enough to break the skin.   
  
That was it. "Bloody bitch!" Spike growled and shoved her across the room. As he clawed at her skin and threw punches at her face, he screamed, "I did it all for you! I got a soul for you! I became a fucking human for you!" He shoved his knee between her legs and reveled in her gasps and sobs. "Did it ever occur to you, you idiot, that you're too fucked up to understand any of this? Do I have to beat it into your bloody skull?"  
  
The rage grew with each thudding heartbeat in his chest. She screamed and cowered, and he fed off her fear. And when the rage had spread through each cell in his body, he moved in for the kill.  
  
Her blood filled his mouth, and he drank deep._  
  


* * *

  
  
Spike screamed. His hand flew to his mouth, and he pricked a finger on the fangs that had emerged. He wanted desperately to shift out of game face, but his body wouldn't cooperate.  
  
Kicking at the sheets tangled around his body, he fought with everything he had to get out of the bed, to be lucid again. Once he'd broken free, he paced the room, chanting, "Oh, God!" over and over until his throat was raw.   
  
And then he remembered something else. He pressed his hand to his chest. It was still. No heartbeat.   
  
But the blood screamed inside him. Not her blood, no. She was thousands of miles away, and good God, she had to stay there. He had to stay far, far away from her. He could still hear her growling, "I could never trust you enough for it to be love."   
  
It was all too much, even if it was just a nightmare. God, what did it say about him and the dark urges lurking under his skin?  
  
Spike stumbled into the bathroom and vomited.   
  
As the sounds of his retching filled the tiled room, his mind chanted, "Gotta leave. Gotta stay away from her."   
  
He crumpled into a corner of the bathroom and began to sob.  
  
_Gotta stay away from her.  
_  


* * *

END, Chapter Three.  


wisteria@smyrnacable.net  


  
  
  
  
  



	4. Cairo

* * *

**Ten Thousand**  
by wisteria

_4. Cairo_

* * *

  
For all the calm of the resort on the banks of the Nile, the chaos of Cairo was overwhelming. When Spike first arrived, daybreak was only a couple of hours away. He could still hear the groaning of the cycle as he'd pushed it to go as fast as it possibly could, breaking a few land speed records in the process.  
  
Though there was an overabundance of modern hotels in the city center, none of them were willing to rent a room at 5 a.m. So he retreated out into the Islamic neighborhoods and took refuge from the morning sunlight in a mosque, throwing a blanket over his head and pretending to pray. At least he knew from decades-old experience that only Christian symbols seemed to cause problems for him.   
  
The mosque is where the trouble began.  
  
He was bored out of his mind, since his current state didn't leave him many topics to think about. After last night, he wouldn't let himself think of Buffy, so he started remembering the glory days of old. All those times with Drusilla over the years that had been the highlights of his life. Problem was, at best they bored him, and at worst they made him sick. He knew that had to be the soul, and he hated it if only because it took another topic off his table.   
  
So he finally let himself think of Buffy, replaying the entire past year in his mind. And yeah, there had been some good times, though not very many. Of course there were those first two kisses and the night that he finally got to make love to her, even if she didn't think of it that way at all. Then other little moments, like when he first saw her alive again, and when she let him hold her for an hour before yanking on her clothes and running away.   
  
Maybe they weren't good memories in the purest sense of the term, but they were all he had.  
  
As he mentally catalogued each kiss he'd given her over those few months, he began to hear voices around him. He readjusted the blanket so he could hear more easily, yet that didn't do the trick.   
  
Spike finally lifted it just enough to see what was going on. A group of maybe ten men were huddled around a bench, gesturing and talking in what looked to be conspiratorial mode. When one of them looked over in his direction, he let the blanket fall back down to hide his face. White-blond hair wouldn't go over well in Egypt, no matter how westernized the city had become.   
  
A half-hour later, the voices had gotten more heated, and Spike could hear suitcases being opened. He peeked again and saw light glinting off metal. He knew that glint quite well. Knives and guns. There was something else, but he couldn't tell what it was. Maybe the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch, except this was a mosque, not a church, and definitely not a historical anachronism.  
  
Even across the room, he could feel the intense, eager vibe the men gave off. Something was going to happen. Spike couldn't help but think, "Sounds like fun." Fighting the good fight alongside Buffy was all well and good, but there was just something appealing about the organized chaos these guys seemed to be planning.  
  
Then, as quickly as they'd come, the men departed.   
  
Spike had to wait another two hours for the shadows to shift enough to let him leave. He even sat through several services, bowing and standing at just the right times, the blanket over his upper body the entire time.  
  
When he was finally able to leave the mosque, the air was so glorious on his face that he didn't even notice the stench. He shoved the blanket into the backpack, atop the dwindling supply of blood bags, and set off to find a hotel.  
  


* * *

  
  
Cairo was moderately lively after dark, a fact for which Spike was immensely grateful. Not that Sunnydale was exactly the City of Lights or anything, but he'd been stuck in backwaters since leaving there, and it was good to be somewhere where the people didn't hibernate after sunset.   
  
Then again, most of the people out and about tonight were tourists. He was a tourist too, he supposed. Off to see the sites and such. He'd heard the pyramids were great. Drusilla had wanted to visit back during the '30s after hearing about the King Tut crap from some vampires in Paris. They never did make it, though. Always someplace else to go, somewhere new to see. At the time it was Berlin, then Madrid – anywhere that looked interesting in the morning newspaper. If there had been passenger jets back then, they would've hit so many more places. Maybe even been in the papers themselves.  
  
The world held such a glamour in those days, now ruined by film and television. Places existed in imagination, culled from books and stories told over a pint of blood in a bar or cabaret. Imagining a distant place was often far more interesting than visiting it. Now, though, he knew just what Australia was like, even though he'd never been to the antipodes. He'd seen the photos, watched the movies. Took the mystery out.  
  
He remembered a poem from an Emily Dickinson anthology that he'd nicked to read on a long boat ride decades ago. _ "I never saw a moor / I never saw the sea / Yet know I how the heather looks / and what a wave must be."   
_  
Nearly a hundred and forty years on this planet, and Spike thought maybe he knew too much.   
  
He stared at the tourists meandering around the square, disappearing down narrow streets and through curtained doorways. Everything was so exotic, even to a jaded old guy like him. All the colors and sounds... it was overwhelming, in a good way. That brought back another memory.  
  
_Lying with her under the rugs in his crypt. Watching her fingers trace the whorls of the pattern, and thinking of how he wished she'd touch him with such softness. Her voice as she asked him if he'd ever been to Persia. "It's Iran now, pet," he'd replied. She had rolled her eyes in that way he loved, because it was just her thing, divorced from the way she always treated him. "I can take you there someday," he'd told her, and she'd wrinkled her nose. Said she'd never go anywhere with him, but those were the heady days of first being able to touch her, make love to her, and he'd believed anything was possible._  
  
He knew better now. At least, he thought he did. On the flight over, he'd been so convinced that it would be simple. She said she wanted a lover with a soul, and he'd give her one. But now? God, he didn't even know anymore. Maybe he never would.  
  
Perhaps the soul wasn't enough. Isn't that what Whistler had said? Isn't that what he knew now?  
  
He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, as if he could make the headache disappear. Things would be much easier if he could get everything to disappear at will. These days, life was teaching him that his will didn't get him very far.  
  
So he kept walking in hopes that the pounding of feet on cobblestones would do the trick. It did, sort of. Kept him focused on things besides her.   
  
When he rounded a corner, he found another open area with lots of tourists. He did a quick check and realized that he wasn't too far from the hotel, which was good. Not nearly as nice of a place as the one in Aswan, as if that place could be called "nice", but it was a roof over his head. A dismal roof, and he'd been glad to get out of there as soon as he checked in. Just a little walkabout to clear his head and relax.  
  
Cars whizzed by, drivers acting like they were on amphetamines. He'd seen enough of Africa so far to peg this as normal. Spike was tempted to go back for his bike, just so he could whiz around too and work out the kinks that way. Then something caught his attention and stopped him in his tracks.  
  
A car pulled up alongside the curb. This was unusual in and of itself, given that all the other cars kept speeding by. More unusual were the men who piled out. Three blokes in typical Arab garb, except for one thing: Spike knew them.  
  
It was the men from the Mosque earlier that day. Their faces weren't all that distinct, but Spike recognized them nonetheless. He stopped to stare at them, and then he remembered the knives and guns they'd brandished with a whoop and a battle cry.  
  
Something was up, and it didn't look like the organized chaos that had seemed appealing earlier that day.  
  
Spike scuttled back toward a doorway, where he could watch them without being noticed. Stupid to think that they'd recognize him; no blanket over his head now, and the men hadn't even looked over at him earlier. Still, something made him want to keep in the night shadows.  
  
The men began to run away in the opposite direction. That was bizarre, especially when Spike noticed that the car was still running. And then he realized what was happening.  
  
He opened his mouth to yell something, but his throat was dry and he was too stunned to make a sound. He could almost hear the pulse of the city beating a countdown.  
  
The explosion knocked him against the stone wall behind him. Stars danced across his eyes.  
  


* * *

  
  
Disoriented and with a searing pain in the back of his head, Spike slowly picked himself up from the pavement. He knew the pain all too well, though this time the headache was of quite a different sort. He shook himself lucid, wondering why Buffy was hitting him this time.  
  
Then he remembered. _Explosion. Screams. Men running away._  
  
The absurdity of it all made him want to break into delirious laughter. _Travel ten thousand miles for a soul, and you get caught up in terrorists and car bombs. Welcome to Cairo._  
  
He shook his head until the stars disappeared. Then he heard the sirens and cries. People littered the pavement like crumpled scraps of newsprint. He stared at them, at the blood pooling around a woman and her teenaged kid nearby. Another man was picking himself up off the ground, wobbling with the movement and finally collapsing again. Maybe a dozen people in all, in various stages of injury and death. Some of them might make it. Most probably wouldn't.  
  
Strange to start thinking of the victims as people in need of saving, instead of as dinnertime. The thought flickered across his mind until he pushed it aside. No time for a crisis of conscience, he told himself.   
  
A bright flash of light nearby nearly blinded him, and his hands flailed in the shock. He turned toward the light and saw a tourist snapping photos.   
  
"Fucking bastard!" Spike growled and struggled to stay out of game face. Not the place for that. He pulled his arm back and launched a blow at the asshole, hoping to knock the bloody camera all the way to the Nile.   
  
That brought on the headache he was more used to having. _Guess the chip was still functional after all. _ He clutched his head with both hands; the pain shooting through his brain was even stronger than being knocked into the wall. When his eyes re-focused, he expected to see the camera asshole hurling a fist to finish the job. Instead, the guy was staring at him in shock, then he ran away.   
  
Spike wanted to run after him, bugger the chip, but two words kept echoing in his head: _No time._   
  
So he hustled back over to the victims scattered around the sidewalk. He heard the ambulance sirens in the distance, but he knew from decades of staring down at dying people that some of them didn't have much time left. 'Can't save 'em all,' he thought, and again he was poleaxed by the realization that his first instinct was to save them.  
  
_Well, if that's the soul, _he thought, _then lucky for them._  
  
He crouched down next to a middle-aged white tourist. Her blood already stained the pavement, and her eyes were glazed over. He put his hand against where he used to bite deep, and there was a pulse.  
  
"You okay?" he asked.   
  
She stared up at him and tried to laugh. Blood gurgled audibly in her lungs. Her voice barely a whisper, she said, "What do you think?" in a Dutch accent.  
  
Spike nodded. "Guess not." He saw her leg jackknifed under her. Didn't look comfortable at all. Then he smelled her soul. It called out to him, like two magnets clicking together.  
  
Reaching underneath her arms, he pulled her over to the doorway where he'd been when the bomb went off. She was going to die, he could tell, but at least he could help her be a little more comfortable when it happened.  
  
He'd seen death thousands of times since he became a vampire, but never from this side. It touched him somewhere deep inside.  
  
So he stood over her, arranging her limbs until everything was laid out the way it should be, and her skin was so pale it shone in the harsh streetlights. "My bag," she muttered. The words confused him until he looked up and saw her purse still sitting in the pool of blood where she'd been a minute before. Spike sprinted over and grabbed it, then brought it back to her.   
  
"Address book," she whispered, so he rummaged around in her purse until he found a small booklet. "Telephone my family. They are listed with the surname 'Marken'. Tell them what happened to me."  
  
Spike stared at her with wide eyes. So strange, this was. He finally nodded. "I'll do that tonight."  
  
The half-smile he got was her thanks. He could see her laboring after each word, but the determination in her eyes told him that she had things she had to say. He decided that if anything, he could be her confessor.   
  
"You are a vampire," she said.   
  
The words startled him. All he could do was nod and mutter, "Yeah."  
  
"But you are a good one."  
  
_What? This was beyond bizarre. Was he supposed to think of himself as 'a good one' now? Still if it made her happy.... _  
  
She bit her lip and said, "I am an organ donor."  
  
The absurdity of the conversation nearly knocked him over. This woman was dying with her head in his lap, and she was telling him to donate her organs? Words sputtering from his mouth, he told her, "Don't think that's quite the thing here, love. Sorry 'bout that." Spike paused then asked, "Are you Mrs. Marken?"   
  
"Angelika Marken."   
  
Ah, he should've known that an Angel would come up even here. Story of his...   
  
"I know they will not take my organs here, but I still have something to give." Her voice was so faint that he could barely hear it, even with his enhanced senses. But she reached over and grasped his hand with as much strength as she could muster, and Spike could tell she was determined to tell him something.   
  
"What's that, love?" He couldn't quite bring himself to say 'Angel' or even her variation of it. Too many bad memories, especially with the soul thing.   
  
Even though she was dying, a calm surety shone through her eyes. "You are a good vampire. Take my blood."  
  
Spike recoiled. _Oh, God. No, not that. _  
  
He closed his eyes and squared his jaw. "No."  
  
Then she said with that same calm voice, "Take it. I want you to."  
  
He opened his eyes and felt the soul spinning around in his head, his heart. Even with his tenuous grasp on morality, he knew this was wrong. So wrong. The voices fought inside him.   
  
'Drink her,' one taunted. 'She wants it. Give her that much. It isn't wrong if she is dying already.'  
  
The other screamed, 'No! It's wrong. Feeding off disaster victims? That's what a beast would do. You didn't come all this way to be a beast.'  
  
Spike wanted so much to listen to that second voice, but the scent of her blood filled his lungs. So bright, so vital. Such overwhelming craving.   
  
But he looked at her and saw the plea in her eyes. Not so much a plea for him to drink, but just for something to be right for a change. Wanting to give something back, even if she couldn't donate her heart, her lungs.   
  
He felt her pulse slowing down against his leg. It became thready and weak. The paramedics were already tending to other victims, but Spike knew that Angelika was done for.   
  
_This is your first test, _Spike thought. He just wished he knew what the right answer was. Scariest of all was the idea that neither answer was completely correct.  
  
In a voice hovering on the edge of death, Angelika began to whisper, "Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum...."   
  
It was now or never. He finally brought her bloody wrist to his mouth and took one long sip.   
  
The pulse ceased against his lips. He curled her fingers into a loose fist and kissed it.  
  
Spike slowly stood on wobbly legs and called out in a voice that was barely there, "Here's another victim. Her name is Angelika Marken. Take good care of her."   
  
He waited until a lone paramedic made his way over to them, then watched as the man checked for a pulse and breath. Spike knew there was nothing left.  
  
Tucking Angelika's address book in his pocket, he stumbled away in the direction of his hotel. The ounce of blood in his stomach churned and roiled. He slowly walked back to the hotel.  
  
He wondered if he'd passed.

"Yeah," he echoed.   


* * *

END, Chapter Four.  


wisteria@smyrnacable.net  


  


  
  
  
  
  



	5. Alexandria

* * *

**Ten Thousand**  
by wisteria

_5. Alexandria_

* * *

  
After careful examination and consumption of four bottles, Stella was now officially Spike's favorite beer. Too bad the blood bags were back at the hotel; they would have made a great chaser. This bar was a bit too neon for his tastes, but it was still open at 3 a.m. and the bartender accepted Visa. Spike would rather wallow drunk and around other people than alone at the hotel. After Dawn's impromptu visit the night before he left, solo drinking didn't hold much appeal.  
  
It had been a hard night, and he needed the break. He'd wandered around in a daze for a couple of hours after the bomb, suddenly scared shitless by the prospect of having to call Angelika's family. Finally, he'd sucked up the intimidation and found a telephone kiosk in a random hotel's lobby. Spike had relayed the news by rote, giving them little chance to respond. He told them about the bombing and that she had wanted them to know that they were in her thoughts. He'd hung up before he could hear their tears.   
  
Spike was angry that it had made him want to cry too.  
  
A television above the bar was in the midst of a piped-in CNN newscast. Couldn't escape them even halfway across the bloody world, it seemed. The top story was the bombing, and Spike was torn between wanting to watch and needing to shut his eyes and pretend it hadn't happened.   
  
The latter won out, but he looked up at the telly when a man referred to as the leader of the largest mosque in Cairo began a speech deploring the bombing as an act of cowardice. _Yeah, _Spike thought, _'cowardice' was right. The brave ones were the poor lot dying on the sidewalk as the bombers ran away. _  
  
The announcer came back on and said that it was part of an escalating campaign between Christian and Islamic extremists. That didn't surprise Spike. It all came down to religion, in the end. People'd been fighting over that for centuries, and they'd probably be fighting until the end of the world. Spike thought it was a stupid reason for a war. Let people believe whatever the hell they want. Let 'em hate, love, shag, ignore whomever they bloody wanted to. It's when others got involved that everything got fucked up.  
  
_After all,_ he thought with a grimace, _that's what brought me here, right?_  
  
The bloke on the stool next to him turned toward Spike. Great. Company – just what he wanted.  
  
"Are you American?" the guy asked.  
  
Good question. "Uh, not really. I'm English, but I've been living in California."  
  
The man perked up. "I've been to Los Angeles. Is that where you live?"  
  
Live. Such a strange word for it. Still, nothing else really fit, and Spike doubted the man would go for the whole vampire thing, no matter how drunk he already was.  
  
So he said, "Little town north of there, actually." He didn't feel like adding the name.  
  
The guy held out a hand. "I'm Aziz. Nice to meet you."  
  
Spike stared at the hand, then shook it. "Spike. Likewise."  
  
Aziz took a sip of his beer. "California women are very beautiful. I fell in love with a young woman in Los Angeles."   
  
"Yeah?" That piqued Spike's interest, just a bit.  
  
"Her name was Katie. She was very perfect. We were both students at the University of Southern California. I thought I would like to marry her."  
  
"What happened, mate?" Spike motioned to the barkeep for two more Stellas.  
  
The man's face clouded. "Her family and friends were very – how do you say? -- conservative. They thought that I was a terrorist or that I agreed with them. Katie said that it did not matter to her, but I know it did. Although I hoped to stay there after university, I finally had to leave. I did not want to stay if I could not be with her."  
  
Spike burst into harsh laughter fueled by alcohol. "Story of my life, mate."  
  
Aziz looked up with interest. "You too?"  
  
"Yeah. Got my own bint back in bloody California." His voice could cut glass as the anger rose. "She hates people like me. Thinks I'm no better than them."  
  
"She hates the English?"  
  
Spike did a double-take. "Uh, right. Very prejudiced, she and her friends are."  
  
The beers arrived, and both men clicked bottles with a 'cheers'. Two lovelorn, rejected comrades-in-arms. Communion can come in the strangest places, Spike thought.  
  
"It's never enough, right? Did everything I could to prove her wrong. Turned my back on the whole evi – uh, English thing. Tried to show her that I'm not a beast like all the others of my kind that she dusts."   
  
Realizing his slip, he glanced over at Aziz, but the other man was too immersed in his own beer.  
  
"I understand," Aziz replied. "Prejudice is a very bad thing. Katie's friends believed that all people in Egypt are terrible – like terrorists, you know? Because I am Egyptian, they thought I must be bad too. I try to tell them that my people are very peaceful and loving, but they would not believe me. Katie said she did not care, but that was not true. I did not want her to turn her back on her friends and her country, so I broke up with her."   
  
Spike chuckled. "Oh, my people _are _evil. I know that. I was bad too, 'fore I met her. Still am, I suppose. But I turned my back on my whole bloody existence and came to Africa so I could prove to Buffy that I was worthy of her." He took a long sip of the beer. "Trouble is, I don't think it will ever be enough for her and those sodding friends of hers."  
  
The two men were silent for several minutes, neither really paying attention to the other's rant. But each was just the guy that the other needed: someone who understood.  
  
"Love is a terrible thing," Aziz finally said.  
  
Spike sighed. "That it is, mate."  
  


* * *

  
  
Half-stumbling, he walked around the city until daylight threatened. Too many thoughts to sort out, and he got the feeling that if he went back to the hotel and tried to sleep, the nightmares would make a grand re-appearance.   
  
So he walked and walked, not really going anywhere in particular and hoping that his innate sense of direction would let him find his way back.  
  
As he passed through an intersection, he turned to look down the long street at his left. It ended at the large plaza where the bomb had gone off. From a distance, he could only register flashing lights, but Spike knew that the police were still there, sorting through the mess.  
  
_Kind of like my life,_ he thought.  
  
Then when he closed his eyes to chase away the afterimage of the lights, all he could see was Angelika Marken's face when she told him to drink her blood. _Let me give you something, _ she'd asked, though not in those words.   
  
And Spike wondered if what he'd done really was wrong in the end. She wanted it, didn't she? He gave her what she asked for, which was a noble thing to do. Yet by doing so, he was invoking the demon. She called him a "good vampire", but good vampires didn't drink from humans. Right?   
  
Since when was he even supposed to be a good vampire, damn it? He got the soul for Buffy, so she'd finally take him back. Being good wasn't meant to come with the package.  
  
Spike pressed his hand against his face, trying to rub away the memory of Angelika's eyes as the life passed out of them. Too much. It was just too much.  
  
He shuffled forward, almost wishing more people were out and about at 5:41 in the morning. Would've made him feel less alone, not that he had much desire to talk to anyone. But the narrow streets, thick smoggy air, and storefronts in a language he didn't understand all combined to give him a sense of being outside of himself, as if he had been picked up and dropped on another planet. He didn't think he liked it very much.  
  
Travel wasn't new to him. Hell, he'd traipsed over half the world with Drusilla, and Angelus and Darla before that. This was different, though. Back then, the world was something to be conquered. Cutting a swath across continents, and all that shit. Doing taste-tests with Dru to see if the blood of a Russian really did taste different from the blood of a Thai. Seeing just what they could get away with, not that they ever gave much thought to any consequences.  
  
In the space of eight short days, his world had become all about consequences.   
  
He didn't think he liked that very much either.  
  


* * *

  
  
Spike found another reason that Stella Beer was the best damn stuff in the world: it chased away the nightmares. Sure, that could've just been due to profound drunkenness; he knew that eight beers on an empty stomach would do in even the hardiest vampire.   
  
Whether it was the beer or exhaustion or just sheer will, Spike managed to sleep through the day without remembering what he dreamt. The marks of his fingernails on his chest and the puncture wounds of his fangs on his lower lip were indication enough, but at least he had no memory of it.  
  
When the first fingers of sunset began peeking through the curtains, he shuffled over to the tiny bathroom and kept the lights off. Didn't want a repeat of the mirror angst in Aswan. The soap was cheap but it did the job, and he emerged fifteen minutes later scrubbed clean. Everything felt lighter and fresh.   
  
As he got dressed – he still had the god-awful khakis from Aswan, but they were stuffed at the bottom of the backpack – he puffed up his chest and slicked back his hair with his fingers. Almost felt like the Spike of old, and that was a relief. Maybe the rest had done him some good.  
  
The backpack made him swagger as he locked the door behind him and took the stairs down to the lobby. The problem with vampire sleeping habits was that he was stuck paying for an extra night, but he did some mental math and determined that he still had a little over eleven grand on the Visa. It'd last him for quite a while longer. Plus, something good had come of the drinking last night: Aziz told him of a cousin in Alexandria who was looking to buy a motorcycle.   
  
Spike signed the charge receipt and headed out the front door, after getting directions to Alexandria from the clerk. The bike was still where he'd left it, lucky for him, and he headed out into the night.  
  


* * *

  
  
In a century and change, Spike had seen every style of night there was to see. His favorite was when the sky was overcast but not rainy, when the city lights reflected off the clouds and cast the night in a hue of platinum. The world was brighter on those nights, like it was glowing from the power of a million candles flickering just behind the clouds.  
  
_Yeah, still a touch of the poet in me, _he thought as he pushed the bike so hard that it might fly apart underneath him.  
  
He missed the clouds, the bright sky even in nighttime. He'd seen eleven African nights so far, and while the surrounding scenery might change, they were all cloudless. Pitch-black, but not quite. The moon was brighter here with nothing to obscure it.  
  
Egypt wasn't big on the green "Alexandria – 59 Miles" signs that he'd come to miss about America. Mental math told him that he was still that far away, and that it was around half-ten at night. Plenty of time left to get there, do a couple of tasks that needed getting done, and then wait for the boat to Greece that the hotel desk clerk in Cairo had told him about.  
  
Of all things, it reminded him of Texas. He remembered four years ago, when he'd left Prague with Drusilla. Spent a week in the belly of a cargo ship, hiding in the trunk whenever a seaman came down for inspections. She'd been so highly-strung, even more than usual, and a dozen times he'd had to knock her unconscious because the cries got to be too much.   
  
When they'd finally disembarked in Savannah, they set a course along I-10, off to see America by night. Only one destination in mind: Sunnydale, where the hellmouth was going to restore color to her cheeks, right?   
  
Things hadn't quite turned out as planned. They never did.  
  
Texas. Nine hundred miles of interstate, stretching from pine trees in the east to mesas in the west. The sky had been huge, from what he'd seen out the windows. He'd rolled them down, letting the air whoosh through the car. It had felt like he and Dru were the only ones on earth. It had been the last sense of utter peace he would feel for quite some time.  
  
The road between Cairo and Alexandria felt like that tonight. No car this time, just the wind whooshing around him and the sense of complete solitude, like the whole world had vanished. He wasn't heading to Sunnydale this time, though. Didn't know if he wished he were. But the wind whipped color into his cheeks, even if it was technically impossible. He could feel it there. The sky was black, the moon was bright, and he felt something that was suspiciously like being alive.  
  
Spike sped along the highway, each pothole and pebble jarring his bones. Wouldn't let himself think about anything except mental math and the road ahead of him.   
  
The past week had taught him that introspection led to topics he didn't much care to confront. Tonight he just wanted to exist.  
  


* * *

  
  
Four hundred bucks for a motorcycle was a rip-off, but Spike was glad to be rid of it. He almost saluted it as Aziz' cousin Hajj drove away. The piece of junk had served him well, getting him from Kampala to Alexandria without any technical difficulties.   
  
Next up was a ferry to Greece tomorrow morning, so the bike wouldn't be much use anymore. Luckily, Hajj had paid cash. Spike mentally added another $600 to the kitty. He knew just what he was going to do with it. Time to put that damned Suvolte payoff to its intended use.  
  
But oh, shit, this was going to be hard.   
  
Best thing about Alexandria was the internet café open until two in the morning. Second best thing was the ashtray next to the keyboard. Use the right hand to type, left hand to hold the cig. Thank God he wasn't in California anymore.   
  
His first stop was westernunion.com. One afternoon while shooting the shit in Clem's flat, he'd looked over the demon's shoulder while he wired money to his mother in North Carolina. Clem had been in for some ribbing for that, but Spike had to admire a guy who took care of his loved ones.   
  
The process was simple enough. Spike set up an account, then jumped through the hoops to wire a thousand bucks to Sunnydale, in the name of Dawn Summers. The pre-paid Visa still had enough on it to handle the deduction. Then he second-guessed the name thing. He thought about changing it to Buffy's, until he remembered that the kid was far more likely to take it than she ever would be. So, he clicked on the button to finalize the transaction.  
  
That was the easy part.   
  
Spike needed fortification before doing the next thing. The café was BYOB, though he suspected they meant booze, not blood. He took a long swig of the blood-Stella cocktail in his flask, feeling it course down each inch of his throat. It wasn't enough, but he'd faced far worse in his time.   
  
He logged on to his Yahoo e-mail account that Clem had set up on a lark one afternoon. Took a good ten minutes to scroll through and delete the spam, but he was surprised to find a message from Clem himself. Opening it, he read slowly.  


_Hey buddy!  
  
What's up? I didn't know if you were going to be doing the e-mail thing while you were gone, but I figure what the hey! I hope that soul thing worked out for you, but then I guess that if you're reading this, it did. Did the demon ask you to cut down a tree with a herring? Oh, and if you see that Whistler guy, tell him that my cousin's doing better. He finally stopped twitching, which is definitely an improvement._   


  
Spike chuckled; it eased the tension a bit.

_It's been kinda crazy around here. I think there was some wackiness with that Willow girl, but nobody ever told me the details, and I don't think I want to know anyway. I mean, yuck! Major creep factor. But you'll be glad to know that the Slayer seems really happy these days. I saw her hanging around your cemetery the other night, and she was all smiles. It was weird, but hey, she's happy and you wanted her to be happy, right?  
  
So anyway. That's what's up here. See ya when you get back!!!  
  
Clem_   


  
Well. That deserved another cigarette and four more swigs of booze. He was ten thousand miles away, and Buffy was happy. Let the self-flagellation begin.   
  
As the alcohol did its magic, he wondered if he could just go back to Uganda and get the demon to get rid of the soul. Hell, if the slayer was happier with him gone, then what the fuck did he need a soul for? Better yet, why should he ever go back?  
  
God. He thought this would be hard. It was a hundred times worse.  
  
Spike weighed his options: One, he could go down to the beach and wait for the sunrise. The Mediterranean was gorgeous. Worse places to die. Two, he could just keep going according to plan. Greece, then maybe Berlin, and eventually back to California. Three, he could haul ass back to Sunnydale, because oh God! He wanted to see her smile again.  
  
He let his head loll on his neck, his face tilted toward the ceiling. The cigarette burned to ash between his fingers.  
  
_Keep going, _he told himself. _Just keep going._  
  
Greece, it was.  
  
When he picked up the flask, it was nearly empty. "Bloody hell," he muttered. He lit another cigarette; at least it gave him something to do with his hands. Better that than remembering the feel of those hands on her skin. He had to remind himself that option three was ridiculous. Like hell was she going to just jump into his arms. If anything, she'd probably stake him.  
  
He really, really needed some more alcohol.  
  
The clerk at the front desk gave the clock a pointed glance as Spike passed her on the way out the front door. He just held up his credit card and smirked; she'd get paid, so what was her problem? The walk to the discotheque a block away didn't take long, and Spike was back with two longnecks with another a half-hour left before the cyber café closed.  
  
God, it tasted good, too good to even dilute with blood. He swirled the chilled beer around his mouth before swallowing, and Spike could actually feel it puffing him up, making the next thing he had to do much easier.  
  
After clicking on the "reply" button, he deleted Clem's text and started typing. He hadn't touched a keyboard in a while, but some things were hard to forget. 

_I'm still in Africa. Gonna be a while before I get back, so don't wait for me or anything. Things are going just fine. Never better, in fact. Soul's just window dressing.   
  
Need you to do something for me, mate. When you get this, find Dawn and tell her to go to the Western Union office on 14th Street. There's something waiting for her. Make sure she gives it to Buffy. If the Bit asks, DO NOT TELL HER WHERE IT CAME FROM! I mean it. You do that, and your ass is gonna be pushing up daisies when I get back. Just make up some story or whatever. I don't care. Buffy can NOT know who sent the money. I value my life (well, what's left of it) too much to tell her, and you'd better value yours enough to keep mum._   


  
Spike read back over it. Maybe he came on too strong. He thought about deleting, then he decided against it.  


_Look, it's just important to me, okay? You do this for me, and there's another 200$ in it for you when I get back. Maybe I'll even rustle you up some kittens._  


He thought about saying more, then decided that was just about enough.  


_That's all for now. Take care of my girls, mate.  
  
Spike._   


  
He clicked on the "send" button before he could second-guess himself. The distance between Alexandria and Sunnydale stretched through each nerve in his body, and he felt a sudden loneliness.  
  
Spike closed down the browser and stumbled to his feet, feeling the effects of three beers and a bag of blood. Just a bit of a wobble as he walked over to the clerk and paid the tab with some of the Egyptian cash left over from selling the bike. She looked tired, and on a lark, he threw in an extra twenty bucks or so. Made him feel better, at least. It wasn't supposed to be his money, anyway. All of it was supposed to be in a bank account in Sunnydale, making Buffy's life easier. And that's where the leftovers would go when he got home.  
  
As he walked down Alexandria's main drag, once again he had to force himself not to even think about option three. Couldn't go home yet. Still too much to sort through.   
  
He took out the tourist map and deciphered it under the streetlamps. The beach was only a few blocks away. He headed over there and looked for a place to hide out until the 7 a.m. boat to Greece. Finding a deep concrete overhang was easy enough, but he wasn't in a hibernation mood yet.  
  
A cool breeze skimmed off the sea. Moonlight and hotel lamps combined to make the Mediterranean shimmer like an opal. He was drunk and borderline-broody, but not too much to appreciate the beauty.   
  
Strangely enough, it made him optimistic. Maybe everything _would _work out in the end. Maybe all those Buffysmiles that Clem mentioned weren't because of Spike being gone. Could be something else altogether. He really hoped so. Girl needed some happiness in her life.   
  
Hope slithered down his spine and let him smile too. He'd sort things through, then go home and do his penance to Buffy until she smiled back at him. Then someday in the future, he'd bring her back here. They'd do it in style, too. Get one of those really posh hotel rooms behind him. Make love all day with the curtains closed, then sit here on the beach and watch the opal sea. Maybe rent a car and go see the pyramids or whatnot. Buy her one of those spangly belly dancer outfits and let her shimmy and sway in a private dance for him alone, then peel it off her and make her scream.   
  
Yeah, she'd like Egypt.  
  
He scooted back on the sand until he was out of the path of the sunrise to come. Pulled the blanket over his head just in case, then continued to stare out at the morning sea. The alcohol made him drowsy, but he wasn't afraid anymore.  
  
That night, there were no nightmares.  


* * *

END, Chapter Five.  


wisteria@smyrnacable.net  


  
  
  
  
  



	6. The Mediterranean

* * *

**Ten Thousand**  
by wisteria

_6. The Mediterranean_  


* * *

  
Finding inner calm in a world of bombs, hate and information overload was a tricky thing. Nothing would ever leave you alone until you told yourself "fuck all" and retreated into a bunker somewhere in the mountains. Then you'd drive yourself crazy by scribbling manifestoes and naming each of the trees outside your front window. But was it really insanity if you were alone and perfectly happy with your lot in life?  
  
That was the conclusion Spike had reached as he watched the sunrise from under a thick blanket and concrete overhang on the shores of the Mediterranean.  
  
Five hours later, though, he was caught between wanting to go find himself a bunker, and wanting to find himself a rifle and shoot each and every customs official and ship steward keeping him from getting on the goddamned boat. He had no idea why they were doing the screening over here instead of once the boat got to Greece, but he didn't care to ask.  
  
Easy to be calm when the sun was rising and everything was so damn lovely that Spike wanted to learn how to paint or buy some bloody postcards and send them to the handful of people he knew. Far more difficult when the idiot representative of the Greek Immigration Authority kept staring at Spike's – fake, courtesy of some friend of Clem's – British passport as if he'd never laid eyes on one before, and asking for the eleventh time why Spike couldn't take the blanket off his head. Spike was this close to vamping out and biting the bastard, chip be damned, but that would probably ruin his chances of getting through Customs.  
  
"Mr. Randall Giles," the git repeated, "you say you are only planning a short stay in Greece? You are aware, Sir, that we cannot allow you to import five bags of blood."  
  
When Spike got home, he was going to chop Clem into little pieces, then get Red to resurrect him so Spike could kick his ass all the way to bloody Mexico. But first, he was going to find out where the hell Clem had found out about that stupid name from the even stupider amnesia spell.   
  
Spike clenched his teeth, trying to think of yet another excuse. Then he finally gave up, reached into the backpack, and tossed the bags overboard. "Fine," he growled. "No more blood. Happy now?"  
  
Good thing he'd had a bright idea that morning, when the ship's scheduled departure time of 7 a.m. turned into noon. He'd thrown the blanket over his head like a cape and skulked into the lobby of the biggest hotel he could find. The gift shop stocked toiletries kits and hot water bottles – Spike had no idea why on earth a tourist in Egypt would ever need one – and he had poured three of the blood bags into them. After paying, of course. That was the worst thing about the soul: he'd started to nick the stuff, then he saw the surveillance camera up on the ceiling. A year ago, he wouldn't have cared one whit. Now, though, it was just too damned much trouble.  
  
Customs Git Number Two started poking through the backpack again, and Spike adjusted the blanket with one gloved hand and held up the umbrella with the other. Umbrella! Bloody hell, he felt like Mary buggering Poppins. Still, it did a better job than the blanket alone. The bloke looked at the hot water bottle then up at Spike, who put on an approximation of innocence and said, "Arthritis."  
  
Heaven forbid the guy believe him. "You mean to say that you have a sun allergy and arthritis? Why did you come to Egypt, then?"  
  
Spike didn't have an answer for him; at least, no answer that the man would believe. Time for the last resort. He sucked up his pride and burst out into hysterical laughter. _See? I'm a moron who has stupid diseases. Point and laugh if you want, but let me in!_  
  
That did the trick. The official stamped Spike's fake passport and waved him onward.  
  
As Spike zipped up the backpack, juggled the umbrella and blanket, and shoved past Customs, he muttered, "Help, help, I'm being repressed."   
  
The cabin he'd reserved was easy enough to find, and he shoved the key in the lock nearly hard enough to break the metal. The impact of his foot on the cabin wall caused a dent, and damn near broke some bones. Felt really, really good, though. For the first time since leaving Sunnydale, he missed the Slayer. Not because he was in love with her, but because he could fight her. He was jonesing for a fight in the worst way. All this forced passivity was grating on his last nerve. Spike hadn't seen any demons or vamps in Africa – which was a surprise – but maybe some would show up in Greece. He could sure use a good kill right about now.  
  
Spike threw the backpack on the bed and reached inside for the shampoo bottle full of blood. Took a long sip of it, even though he knew he should probably be rationing it. First stop in Athens would have to be another blood bank. The human stuff still tasted odd, but it was easiest to get. The fact that bagged blood was easy to nick was a scandal. One would think the Red Cross would do a better job of things. Still, much more simple than hunting down a cow or dog or whatever. He was feeling seriously primal right now, but killing animals with his bare hands was way too Deliverance for his tastes.  
  
Once the bottle was half-empty, he finally gave up and collapsed on the bed. He was bloody exhausted. Crossing national borders had been so much easier in the old days. Who needed a passport when you could just snap a neck or two and be on your merry way? He'd passed through Customs in three African countries without any problems so far. Hell, even the blokes in Frankfurt on the flight over hadn't given him that much lip, and Germans were usually such sticklers for proper documentation.   
  
The headache slithered across his temples and set up residence in the middle of his brain, probably making good friends with the chip. He could just hear it saying, "Wow, you mean ol' Spikey can get a migraine from something besides me? Yay!"  
  
He closed his eyes and was surprised to discover that while he was exhausted, he wasn't sleepy in the least. But he still had a good eight hours before sunset, and it was either sleep or read the crap magazines he'd gotten at the hotel. The only good thing about the delay was that he should arrive in Athens around midnight, instead of before sunset.   
  
Maybe once it got dark he'd take a walk around the deck or whatever. That was assuming he could convince himself not to just throw himself overboard. A good Mediterranean swim had to be better than this.   
  
Bloody Customs gits, making him all mad like that.  
  
He picked up a magazine and started reading.   
  


* * *

  
"So, I hear you're happy now." He didn't look at her as he tossed a styrofoam cup out into the sea.   
  
Long, blonde hair swung into his peripheral vision as she leaned over the railing. He stole a glance over at her; she was watching the cup bob in the boat's wake. The sea was gorgeous tonight, all sparkles and waves, but she was even more beautiful.  
  
When she turned to face him, he looked away. "Yeah. We got things sorted out at home, and it gave me some time to think."  
  
"What'd you think about?" His palms held a sudden fascination, and he read them like a book as he waited.  
  
Her voice carried over the waves, the ship's motor, the emotional distance between them. She hesitated for a second, then said, "Mostly about what happened between you and me. All those things you said, like how I couldn't let myself love you, and how I was just fooling myself."  
  
"And what'd you decide?" He wanted to push her further, to get her to speak the truth for once instead of hemming and hawing, but the moment was too ethereal for that. Might never have this chance again, after all.  
  
Before he heard her words, he felt her hand on his back. It was a light touch, but his body was so attuned to her that each crescent of her fingernails felt like it was cutting into his flesh. She made him tingle and shimmer.   
  
"I decided that you were right. I love you."  
  
When he looked up at her, her whole body was shimmering too, just like his. Everything about her was white light, and he had to touch it, to feel it for himself.   
  
As his hands traced the hard planes and soft curves of her body, she moaned and sighed in all the right ways. Against her lips, he whispered all the things he'd wanted her to listen to – not just hear – for so many months. "God, I love you. I want you. You're mine."  
  
She said the same to him, and her whispers were louder than the waves.   
  
Skimming along the open sea, they kissed, touched, felt. Holding her was a miracle, and his soul sang praises. Her hands moved down his arms until they were holding his, their fingers laced together. They kissed and kissed.  
  
Along the shell of her ear, his tongue traced a faint line. Then he whispered, "This is all I ever wanted, Buffy. Not the sex, though that was good. I just wanted to hold you."  
  
And again, she said, "I love you."  
  
Her fingers tapped his back, like a heartbeat. He grasped them harder, his thumbs brushing over her palms, reading her lifeline.  
  
Then he realized that something was amiss. Both of her hands were clasping his.  
  
The finger tapped harder, and a loud voice said, "You all right, mate?"  
  
Spike gripped the railing of the ship so hard that he thought he might break it. He tilted forward with a jerk, nearly coughing up all the blood he'd consumed earlier.  
  
Shaking his head lucid, he looked up with dazed eyes at the voice.  
  
"Bugger off," he muttered.  
  
The guy was youngish, probably the same age as Buffy. Australian accent, and one of those backpacker anoraks. "Everything okay?" he repeated, and when Spike didn't answer, the man continued, "You should be careful. Phosphorescence can play some really nasty tricks on your mind."   
  
Spike kept silent, hoping the man would go away so he could drift back into the fantasy. No such luck, though.   
  
"It's a beaut, though, isn't it?"  
  
Spike stared out at the sea, glowing like a million diamonds were under its undulating surface. Damned phosphorescence, making him think she was here with him. He didn't trust his voice, so he just nodded.  
  
Seconds stretched into minutes of silence, then the man finally said, "Cheers, mate," and walked away.  
  
_Alone again, naturally._ Spike watched the phosphorescence ebb and fade, and he blinked back tears. For the first time since that night in Buffy's bathroom weeks ago, he wanted to just end it all. To jump into the sea and let the diamonds swallow him whole.  
  
The temptation was overwhelming, and he grasped the railing so hard that he could feel splinters biting into his palms. Maybe not the sea, though. Nothing ever got solved at the bottom of the ocean. He could break the railing into a dozen stakes and shove one into his chest. His dust would have a burial at sea, carried away by the choppy waters.   
  
Suddenly the boat jerked up and down as it hit a large wave, and he stumbled backward away from the railing.  
  
Spike's back hit the steel wall with a thud and a crack, and he slithered down it until he was sitting in a heap on the deck. A semblance of sense was knocked back into him. The absurdity of it all hit him just as hard, causing him to break into hysterical laughter mixed with a few leftover tears.   
  
_God, so far 'round the bend that you're hallucinating, Spike. _  
  
He took a deep breath to calm himself down, but it only made him laugh harder. Even feeling like a royal idiot was better than how he'd felt a few minutes earlier. Suicidal? Please. He'd made it this far, hadn't he? Buffy was happy, which what he wanted. She might not forgive him for what happened at her house, but she was safe and smiling again. He just had to get through this and make his way home to her, then find out where they stood.  
  
"Pull yourself together," he said aloud, and hauled himself back to his feet.  
  
The deck swerved underneath him as he made his way back down to his cabin. Only another hour or two until the boat reached Greece. He'd had a century of traveling, of moving forward without looking back. He'd get through this. Go down, drink some blood, clear his head. Sort things out. Make plans for when he landed.   
  
One last look at the sea before going down, though. In it, he could see the sparkle of her phantom eyes as she had told him she loved him.  
  
  


* * *

END, Chapter Six  


wisteria@smyrnacable.net  


  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Athens

* * *

**Ten Thousand**  
by wisteria

_7. Athens_  


* * *

  
Athens used to be a stunning place, all white marble and pillars, and the long, white columns of Greek necks just waiting to be bitten. Now, though.... well, Spike assumed it was still beautiful, except he could hardly see it through the thick smog that obscured even the night.  
  
He remembered an evening here with Dru back in '63. Drinking ouzo in a café while a bouzouki player on one side warred with the rock 'n roll on the other. Watching the beautiful young people parade past, and doing the "this one" "no, that one" tease with his own dark beauty. Feeling like they were perched on top of a world that was theirs for the taking.  
  
Spike didn't know now if he was still supposed to call those "good times" or not.  
  
Wasn't supposed to revel in the kill anymore, right? The demon back in Kampala hadn't handed him a copy of _Souls for Dummies_, but Spike at least knew that much. Still, the memory of the atmosphere, if not the kill, was too sweet not to be treasured.  
  
He'd had a stroke or two of luck earlier. The boat arrived in Greece just after sunset, and he had a time zone difference on his side too. Lots of time to hit the town.  
  
After getting off the ship – and good riddance! – he'd taken a taxi into Athens, wanting to see if that café still held the same magic. When he got there, he discovered that it had been turned into a car park for some Olympics venue. Of course.  
  
He walked through Plaka, curious if it was still the main vampire hangout in town. Alas, his favorite old ouzerie was now a combo Pizza Hut/Taco Bell, but even through the exhaust fumes, he could smell that special Eau de Vampire.  
  
Though he had business to conduct, Spike popped into the Taco Bell and got a beef burrito, ignoring the clerk who grumbled in broken English that they were about to close. You can take the vamp out of Sunnydale, but....  
  
The crap burrito almost did the trick, but he was starving for something else. All that Ugandan blood was almost gone. Time to see if Athens had a black market.  
  
Some vampires sat at a sidewalk café. They weren't in game face, but Spike knew what they were. He listened harder and noticed they were speaking Portuguese. In Greece, of all places. Maybe they knew where to get blood, outside of killing a few humans.  
  
"Oi, aonde eu posso conseguir sangue?  
  
The woman looked up up-and-down with a sneer. "Na lojo do Spiro." She pointed down the street and rattled off some directions to what was presumably some bloke named Spiro's butcher shop. Spike did a quick mental translation, then mapped out where she'd indicated.  
  
When he looked back at her, she was whispering to her companion. Spike knew enough Portuguese to recognize an insult.  
  
As he walked away, he called out, "Obrigado, cadela!" and raised his fingers in a V-shaped salute. Good thing they looked too drunk to come after him.  
  
The place was easy to find, both because of the large sign in Greek and English, and the vamp latched onto the neck of some bird.  
  
Spike nearly cheered. He'd been itching for a brawl for too long. "Back off, asshole!" he yelled, as he fumbled in his backpack for the pencil he'd used to do crosswords on the ship.  
  
Both vamp and human looked shocked. "Hey, man!" the vamp yelled back in a southern American accent. "She's my girlfriend!" He shook his head and grumbled, "Way to kill the mood."  
  
Spike skidded to a stop a few feet away. Staking the guy would've been a lark, but he knew all about vamp/human interracial dating. He glanced over at the girl; she had a hell of a hickey, but no bite marks.  
  
Finally, he shrugged and slipped the pencil into his jeans pocket. "Right. Carry on, then. I'm just here about the blood."  
  
"Spiro's?" Off Spike's nod, he continued, "Use the intercom to buzz him, and he'll do the invite. The stuff tastes like horseshit, but it does the trick."  
  
"Thanks," Spike muttered as he pressed the intercom.  
  
When he looked back at the couple, he guessed all was forgiven. They were already back to rutting against the wall.   
  
Spike stabbed the button again with a grumble. Hot against-the-wall sex. He missed that.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Another city, another internet café. Athens this time, though, with a full bar and an unofficial "welcome, smokers" policy. Made things much more comfortable. So he sipped beer and inhaled the cig, and he almost felt right at home. Maybe he should skip Sunnydale altogether when he got back. Take Buffy off to L.A., New York, whatever. Someplace with more atmosphere.  
  
No mail from Clem in his mailbox, which surprised him. Demon was online all the time. Even as Spike had teased Clem, he'd stared intently over a flabby shoulder, picking up a few tricks here and there. Never knew when they might come in handy. He still had to wonder, though, why Clem had a brand new computer and DSL... and no cable TV.  
  
Just in case something was indeed up, Spike opened a new window and went over to cleminator.com. The last blog entry was almost a week old, and Clem still hadn't updated his Days of Our Lives recaps page. Odd.  
  
Oh, well. Spike shrugged and went back over to his e-mail. He'd give Clem a call or something.  
  
Then he went over to another online diary, one he'd been checking ever since he and Clem tracked it down one afternoon. It was updated as of last night. Too much technical shit for Spike, but it told him what he needed to know. All he had to do was wait, and she'd show up here like her website said she did every night.  
  
He scrolled back up to look at the photos. She sure was a pretty thing.  
  
And when he looked up at the café doorway, there she was, scanning the room as if looking for familiar faces.   
  
Spike quickly hit the back button until he was at Clem's site again, then he pretended to be engrossed in the decidedly un-engrossing Days recaps. The woman grinned at the barkeep, apparently ordering her usual. Luck was definitely with him tonight, because she took a seat at the terminal right next to him.   
  
With his peripheral vision, he watched her as she set her drink down then logged on to the computer and checked her e-mail. She leaned into the screen as if absorbing the words, and every few moments a smile would spread over her face. Long, brown hair and a peaches-and-cream complexion. She rolled her shoulders as if to work out the kinks, and her hair swung against her back. At one point, she reached down to get something out of her backpack, and Spike noticed that it was quite similar to his, albeit in electric blue instead of yellow.  
  
She reminded him of Dawn; both young women had a sense of beauty just beginning to flourish. The connection didn't surprise him. He felt warm, enthralled, as he stared at her without trying to look like he was staring.  
  
"Brilliant!" she exclaimed. Then she turned to him, a sheepish grin on her face. "Sorry, didn't mean to say that aloud."  
  
Spike smoothed his face into a look of passive interest. "Good news?"  
  
"Yeah." She turned back to the monitor. "My project supervisors back in London were able to get my grant approved."  
  
He pretended like he had no idea what she meant. "Congratulations?"  
  
She laughed, and the sound was as smooth as school flannel. Warm and bright, just like her face. "Thanks! This means I'll get to stay here in Athens for at least another six months."  
  
Spike had read up on her, had seen her diary entries six weeks ago when she was working on the proposal. He knew what it meant to her, but he couldn't tell her that without giving the game away.  
  
When he first started to think about heading up here back in Kampala, he'd remembered her giving the name of the café where she updated her site. Time for a bit of a family reunion.  
  
Shortly after William's death, his sister Isobel married a man named Walter Monroe. Their two children grew up, got married, and so on. In 1978, William's great-great-great niece Lucy was born.  
  
The Internet was a very strange beast. Spike had been bored one afternoon, so he and Clem somehow ended up at a family genealogy site, thinking it'd be a lark to read William's legacy, or lack thereof.  
  
Instead, he found himself reading all about the adventures of Lucy Parker, her family's pride and joy. Earned a first at University College, London, in archeology and applied classical studies. She even had a website and online diary about her dig in Athens.   
  
And now, a hundred and twenty-two years after Drusilla followed him into an alley, William was back with his family.  
  
He pretended to read Clem's site, but the words scarcely registered. The feelings swirling around inside him were strange. He hadn't expected this at all. Thought it'd be a lark to look Lucy up when he got to Athens. Maybe track her down in this internet cafe where she said she came every night. But he never expected to feel this warm glow from having her sit next to him, or from hearing her voice.  
  
Spike hadn't missed his family one bit over the past century. Hell, he'd been happy to be rid of them. Now he was with them again – one part of them, at least – and it felt really good. Oh, she was a beauty, too. The comparison to Dawn was right. He felt a surge of pride in both of them. His girls.  
  
"Bugger!" she muttered. _Oh, yeah. She was definitely his kin._ Loud enough for him to hear – on purpose? – Lucy said, "Wretched server in London is down again. Now I have to wait a half-hour and re-login."   
  
She took a long sip of her beer then turned to look at him. "Haven't seen you around here before. You're English?"  
  
For the first time in forever, he found himself nearly at a loss for words. "Yeah."  
  
Holding out a hand, she said, "I'm Lucy. Nice to meet you."   
  
He shook it, and his confidence fell back into place. "Spike. It's a pleasure." The words didn't quite feel like him, and yet they did. A new, enhanced him. Maybe it was the soul.  
  
Her face brightened and her lips curled into a smirk that was so much like Dawn's that it hurt. "Spike, like the director? Quite cool."   
  
Giving her his most brilliant smile, he murmured, "Something like that, pet."   
  
"You're a charmer." She swirled her now-empty beer bottle. "Want to buy me another Olympus, Spike? A good beer always opens my... " Lucy shifted in her seat, uncrossing her legs, "heart."  
  
_Oh, shit. _ He tried to keep from looking appalled. He'd done some seriously wild things over the past century, but sex with family members was beyond even him, soul or not.   
  
With a slightly less-brilliant smile, he told her, "I'll buy you a drink, but I'm not going home with you."  
  
"We don't need to go home," she practically crooned. The internet diary hadn't let on that she was such a flirt.  
  
"Sorry, love, but you're not my type."   
  
She stared at him, a slow comprehension spreading over her face. "Right. You're gay. My mistake. I should've known."  
  
"No!" he sputtered. Then he did a double-take. Did he _look _gay?  
  
She quirked a brow. "Oh?"  
  
Girl wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Chip off the old block. He'd be proud of her if he weren't really, really uncomfortable. So he said, "Uh, yeah. I'm gay."   
  
Lucy gave him a long one-over, then laughed. "No, you're not. You'll have to try harder than that, Spike. It's a relief, though. Seems like most of the English men here in Athens during the summer are gay."  
  
He let himself relax. "You found me out. Not gay, just taken."   
  
"Ah," she said with an affected wisdom. "I'm in the market for a boyfriend, but I'm not into taking someone else's."  
  
_Not anyone's boyfriend, though God, I wish I were, _he almost replied, but he held his tongue. Talking to her was fun. He didn't want to spiral into a Buffy-induced funk.   
  
Lucy squared her shoulders and held out the empty bottle. "You go get me another beer, Spike, and then you can tell me all about this girl who's keeping you away from me."   
  
Such a flirt. He finally grinned at her and took the bottle. Walking over to the bar, he had to bite his lip to keep from breaking into laughter. This was fun. Should've done it a long time ago.  
  
Finally, a family reunion that suited his twisted soul.  
  


* * *

END, Chapter Seven  


wisteria@smyrnacable.net  


  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. The Pnyx

* * *

**Ten Thousand**  
by wisteria

_8. The Pnyx_  


* * *

  
On a Greek hilltop a few hours before sunrise, he felt his soul. It took on many shapes and colors, shifting and swirling as his vision clouded and his still blood sang.  
  
Or maybe that was the wine.  
  
Part of his soul was lying a few feet away, laughing so hard that her speech was nearly incoherent. "What is the –" gasp, "airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?"  
  
Spike caught his breath and shot back, "African or European?"  
  
Lucy rolled over, her laughter nearly loud enough to wake the whole city. They'd been quoting Python for a half hour, and before that it was a discussion of the outrageous price of movie tickets and ideal ways to get back at those who pissed you off. He didn't suggest biting and draining as an option. Avoidance of certain topics was tricky, but he managed.  
  
After a moment, she said, "Loo time," then for the second time that night, she stumbled over to the portable toilet about fifty yards away.   
  
He drank the rest of his Aghiorgitiko, then took the opportunity to refill the pint glass with blood. Red just like the wine, and Lucy didn't seem to notice the difference.   
  
Staring up at the stars, he almost felt like a man. Drunk and high on life, it was easy to forget that he didn't have to breathe, or that he had to find somewhere to stay before sunrise.   
  
He felt good.  
  
Lucy had, of course, offered to let him crash on her floor, but that presented too many problems. She'd want to know things, then, like who exactly he was and why he couldn't go outside in the daytime. As far as she was concerned, he was just an ordinary Brit traveling the world before going back to his job in California. He didn't want her to know more, because then it would break this soap-bubble of happiness and camaraderie they'd developed in only a few hours.   
  
But talking to her without giving it all away had been hard. He wanted to ask what she knew of her great-great grandparents, his sister and brother-in-law. Not that he really wanted to know, but it was just another facet of the connection they shared, the one she didn't know anything about. He wished she looked more like him, but the gene pool had been diluted over five generations, and like him, she could've been anyone. A stranger.   
  
So, after she finished updating her website, he'd followed her up to her dig, a bottle of wine and two glasses in tow. They'd talked and talked, neither expecting anything of the other. Just an easy companionship of two people who knew they'd probably never meet again, and who wanted to just relax and have a good time.  
  
She returned, wobblier than she'd been an hour ago. The wine bottle was nearly empty, after all. He refilled her glass, and she muttered, "Thanks."  
  
Spike remembered another time, months ago, when he'd drank with Buffy over a long night. It had been incredible to have her there with him, expecting nothing and turning to him just for comfort and honesty. And then, too soon, the bottom fell out and he'd entered that exquisite hell.  
  
He wondered when the bottom would fall out of this new life he was creating, if it ever would.  
  
Lucy lay back, looking up at the stars. He did the same, glancing at her every few minutes. The ancient ruins of the Pnyx surrounded them, pegged by the twine and stakes of her organization's dig. Forever and ephemerae juxtaposed, just like him and Lucy, really.  
  
He took a long sip of the blood, his hand as steady as possible, so he wouldn't spill any. His clothes wore the dirt of hundreds of miles since Aswan, and his whole body felt used and put away. But tonight he felt clean.  
  
"You never did tell me about your girlfriend."   
  
Spike blinked and glanced over at Lucy, who was leaning up on one elbow and looking at him.  
  
He closed his eyes. "Not my girlfriend."   
  
"Fuck-buddy?"   
  
He would have winced, except for the slur of her voice. "Something like that." They were quiet for a few minutes. He watched a car pass by, its headlights flashing across them before moving on. It was the first sign in hours that the world was still alive.  
  
Then he said, "And you?"  
  
"His name was Jeffrey. We were madly in love, then he slept with my sister, got her pregnant, and ran off to join the priesthood. A few months later, his best friend Steve killed him when he found out that Jeffrey had been secretly plotting to take over his fish-and-chips shop. Now the baby's being raised by our mum, and Shelley ran off with Steve."  
  
Spike was nearly speechless. "That's one hell of a story."  
  
"Yeah, I thought so too when I saw it on EastEnders last year."  
  
They laughed for a bit, then she said, "No, it's much more boring. Jeffrey and I were together all through uni. Then I got the grant to come out here, and he stayed back in Reading. We grew apart. Happens all the time."  
  
Spike didn't have much a response; he'd never been one to just let things die out. Loved until the bitter end, usually marked by her dumping him. First Cecily, then Drusilla, and now Buffy. Three women didn't constitute much of a pattern, really, but that was the way things went for him.  
  
But he still loved her, in spite of the bitterness of their end.  
  
Lucy continued, speaking more to herself than to him. "It's strange, though. I've shagged half the available men in Athens, and I keep telling myself that I'll find someone else, another Jeffrey. But it never works out. The sex is usually pretty good. Then, either I don't call or they don't, or else they go back home or take up with someone else in town." She paused to take a sip of her wine. "Not that I'm blaming them, because as often as not I'm the one who's cutting things off. It's just hard to find someone, right? Someone you can be with."   
  
Spike hadn't really been in a similar situation, so all he said was, "You're young. You'll find someone. Just have fun while you're here. Youth is fleeting."   
  
"Not for you," she muttered.  
  
That caught his attention. He looked over at her. "What?"  
  
Lucy raised one brow. "That's not wine in your glass, is it?"  
  
He nearly grinned. Smart thing, his girl. "Nope."  
  
She looked back up at the sky. "It's alright. I had a thing with a vampire last fall. Didn't last long, since I had to kill him."   
  
Spike laughed. "Why's that?"  
  
"He kept trying to bite me during sex. Got very creepy. Then he wouldn't leave me alone. So, I pretended to let him in for one last shag, and I shoved a wooden spoon in his chest."  
  
"Good girl." Funny that he was congratulating her, but hey. Killing his own kind? Story of his life for the past two years.  
  
Lucy put on a stern face. "Just so you know, Spike, this dig is full of stakes, so don't try anything."  
  
"Don't have to worry about that. Biting hasn't been my thing for a couple of years, especially since I fell in love with her." He paused. "And for another reason, but that's neither here nor there."  
  
She sat up and stretched. "You fell in love with her? The fuck-buddy?"  
  
"Yes, and yes."  
  
"So, which was it? Love or shagging?"  
  
Good question. The alcohol and blood had loosened his tongue, and he found himself saying, "I love her madly. She makes me feel like I can be a man, like I'm really alive when I'm with her. She's just the most amazing creature on earth." He picked up his glass and emptied it, his mouth suddenly dry. "She never loved me, though. She only slept with me because her life was a mess, and for a while it was enough because I thought she loved me back even if she didn't realize it."  
  
When he fell silent, Lucy asked, "Don't leave me hanging. What happened?"  
  
God, all the hurt came rushing back. Part of him wanted to shove off and go hide in a corner somewhere. Another part wanted to get every last bit off his chest. Finally, he said, "It all got to be too much. I did something evil. Turned her off me forever. So I went to Africa and got myself a soul. She'll never take me back, but at least now I won't be able to hurt her again."  
  
The world fell silent. Spike could almost hear the whisperings of the centuries of people who'd been on this hilltop before them.   
  
Her voice echoed as she said, "Wow."  
  
"It was nothing."  
  
But wasn't it, though? Wasn't giving up your entire persona as a vampire something? Then he realized what he'd said, and it startled him. On the trip over, he'd thought that it would be so easy: get the soul, then go home to her, chest puffed up and proclaiming, "You can love me now."  
  
He remembered huddling under the blanket on the airplane, trying to sleep but unable to stop thinking about what having a soul would be like. The panic when he thought maybe he'd turn out like Angel. He'd shrugged it off. He was too strong for that. Like he'd told Clem in that e-mail, the soul was supposed to just be window dressing.  
  
But this thing with Buffy... it was too complicated for that, and Spike realized that he was too. The soul was creeping up at him with tiny nibbles instead of the gnawing bits and chunks he'd thought was the chip. It had been so easy to blame her for it all, but it was so difficult now, after all he'd seen since that cave. If the soul was just window dressing, why did he feel such a pull toward humanity? Why was he making connections with strangers?  
  
_Why aren't you going home to her?  
_  
Took him a moment to realize that the words had come not from his own thoughts, but from Lucy.  
  
He looked up at her. She was staring back with a curious expression on her face.   
  
Spike shrugged and said, "Don't know, pet. Got too much to sort out first."  
  
The quiet that followed was a marked contrast to the previous hours spent laughing and drinking. The world sighed along with him.   
  
Finally, Lucy stood and picked up the detritus of their evening. "Unlike you, I have to work tomorrow. The offer still stands. My flat's tiny, but the curtains will keep out the sunlight, and my flatmate's back in Thessaloniki visiting her family."  
  
Spike looked up at this strange creature who had wormed her way into his heart. He'd never wanted anything to do with his family. Thought he'd just come to Athens, peek in on her if he could, and be on his merry way. Now they were connected, even if she didn't know just how. She was his legacy, and he was so proud. Never expected for her to become a part of his soul.  
  
And then he thought of all the other little parts. Buffy. Dawn. The odd sort of life he'd made for himself in Sunnydale before it all fell apart. He wasn't ready to go back, but he missed them all the same.   
  
Maybe when he was able to go home, all the pieces of his soul would fall into place. He'd leave behind the one named "Lucy", but that was okay. He could see himself sitting at Clem's computer, e-mailing her and reading her online diary. Keeping tabs on his kin.   
  
Spike stood up and tested his drunken legs.  
  
He smiled at her and said, "Thanks."

  


* * *

  
  
Best thing about being in her apartment was the books. He had no idea how she'd amassed so many on her shelves, or how she planned to get them all back to England when she returned. Only problem was that her tastes were nothing like his. Lots of classy romances and "modern literature". He'd love to get his hands on some good Asimov right about now.  
  
Still, she'd told him to take what he wanted and leave money to replace them. That was easy. He already had plans on that end.   
  
So Spike chose a half-dozen that looked mildly interesting, then rearranged his backpack until they were stowed beneath the blood and the black clothes that were so filthy that he couldn't bear to wear them a moment longer. Maybe he'd find a posh hotel in Prague and send them out to be cleaned. Now he was stuck in those hideous khaki pants from Aswan. At least Lucy was able to give him a slightly-less-awful dark blue shirt left over from an old boyfriend.  
  
He'd come to Greece still looking like the Big Bad. Now he was leaving as a frat boy. Laundry moved to number two on his priorities list.  
  
Plans were taking shape, though. He did some phoning around and found an overnight train to Budapest, where he could get a connection to Prague. He booked a private couchette and winced at the exorbitant cost, but at least it would keep people out of his way.   
  
Sunset was coming, and he had two more things to do.  
  
Lucy had left for work that morning with all his cash, and she returned at lunchtime after converting it to Euros. Spike found a pen and paper, then wrote, "Thanks." He added the e-mail address that Clem had set up for him. Below the note, he left around $200. He had plenty of money anyway, and he got the feeling that she didn't. It was the least he could do. He resisted the urge to sign the note, "Love, Uncle Spike."  
  
He'd miss her. She said she had to work late and then go to a dinner with some of the professors on her dig, but Spike decided that was a good thing. Goodbyes were awkward. Best to just leave.   
  
The sky outside the window grew dark, and Spike steeled himself for the last thing he had to do.  
  
It was late morning back in Sunnydale. Dawn was probably at school, and he assumed Buffy would be at work. At least, he hoped so.  
  
He dialed a long sequence of numbers and waited for the connection to go through. Three rings, then Dawn's cheerful voice.   
  
_Hi! We're off being fabulous right now, so you'll just have to wait and talk to us later. Leave your name and number, and we'll get back to you. Bye!_  
  
Spike felt her familiar voice wrap around him like a blanket.  
  
He smiled and hung up the phone.  
  
Time to catch a train.  
  


* * *

END, Chapter Eight  


wisteria@smyrnacable.net  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	9. The Balkans

* * *

**Ten Thousand**  
by wisteria

_9. The Balkans_  


* * *

  
There were bad times. So many of them, but oh, so many good times too. In his hopeful moments, he liked to think that she remembered them too.  
  
Transylvania sped past outside the window. Spike wanted to see it, mostly because of the ironic humor of a vampire returning to where it had supposedly all began. He knew better, but the idea amused him. Less amusing, however, was the glow of the midday sun behind the burnt-orange sheet he'd stretched over the window blind.   
  
Every few hours, a knock would startle him, and with a glare and a growl, he'd pull open the door just enough to see out. Yanking it open had a better dramatic impact, but burning to ashes in the sunlight beyond was the kind of drama he didn't care to experience. Most times it was an EU customs official who would glance at his fake passport then move along. Sometimes it would be a clueless tourist thinking Spike's private couchette was up for grabs, but a pointed glance and a look of "you fool" usually set the tourist straight. It was lonely, but he almost welcomed the distractions. No dining car, no way to view the scenery except at dusk and dawn. Just Spike, alone.  
  
Forty-three hours on a train, and he had little to do but read, sleep, and remember.   
  
The train rumbled underneath him. It was a workers' train, not posh by any stretch of the imagination, and it soldiered onward through Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary. He'd been there before, a century ago, when everything changed for Angelus and psychically scattered their little family bonds – if they could be called that – to ashes. Past glories were only worth remembering if you could look upon them with fondness, and those hadn't been the best of times.  
  
His senses were attuned to each movement, each shake of wheel on rail, even more than his vampire senses usually afforded him. The feeling of being cocooned in this couchette enhanced them. Nothing to see, so his ears and muscles picked up each sound and shiver. Every so often, it would shudder around him like an earthquake.  
  
As the train approached Pleven, he remembered another earthquake. It had been one of the good times.

  


_She was so soft that night, and it had surprised him, but not really. He'd seen it coming in the week since her birthday. She acted mostly cheerful at the party, but when he saw her on patrol the next week, her eyes had been darker than usual. "I feel older," she'd said, "and I don't know what to do about it."  
  
They'd fought together instead of against one another, and took out three demons and a fledgling vampire. When the dust had settled, she followed him back to his crypt but stopped at the door, her palm against the wood. He watched her from a few feet away, and he wondered if she was remembering that night when it all went to hell. Sensing her was second nature, and as they'd stood, palm-to-palm then, he'd felt her at war with herself. He wanted to ask if she was still at war, but he knew the answer.  
  
He stood there, waiting to see whether she would push the door open to strip down and forget with him, or if she'd run away like she so often did. But she surprised him by turning her back to the door and sliding down it until she was crumpled like a rag doll. Wouldn't ask for it, of course, but he slithered down next to her and was shocked when she leaned her head on his shoulder.  
  
"How do you live forever?" she whispered. When he didn't respond because he didn't know what to say, she continued, "My life – it just keeps going on, and I don't know when the end is going to come again." A hollow laugh, then, "Again. How warped is that? I die, and I'm pulled back. That's happened twice now. We dusted that fledgling tonight, right when she'd been brought back, and I can't help but think that it's over for her but it's never going to be over for me."   
  
If she had told him at that moment that shoving a stake into his chest would make her feel even a little bit better, he would have handed her the wood. Instead, she turned her face and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. He closed his eyes and absorbed the touch, as soft as air and as piercing as the way Drusilla had bitten him and brought him to death and back again.  
  
Then the earth moved beneath them. It was a small quake as ones in California went, but it broke the quiet and sent her tumbling into him. Reflexes made him grab her and hold her close; she was so strong, but he had to protect her, and he didn't know if it was protection from the quake or from herself. All he wanted was for her to be happy, safe from herself. She began to cry, and he soothed her with soughs of breath and the rhythm of his hand stroking her cheek.   
  
Through her tears, she whispered, "Bring me back to life, Spike." His heart broke for her, and he remembered singing that if his heart could beat, it would break his chest. She shattered and rebuilt him on a daily basis.  
  
Her fingers pulled at the buttons of his shirt, and he took her inside and down the stairs, then laid her out on his bed like a tapestry. His hands, his lips, his whole body worshipped hers, each inch of his dead flesh sparking life in hers. When she finally cried out under him, she felt so alive that he almost felt like he'd succeeded. She clutched at him and he thought, 'I can do this for you. It's all I have to give, and all you'll want from me.' But it was still so much more than he'd ever dreamed of having, and in that moment, it was enough._

  


  
Spike opened his eyes and shivered, even in the stuffy couchette. So good, that night had been. He treasured it selfishly, a small tingle of guilt at feeling such happiness when she was so low.   
  
Each one of those times they made love, had sex, whatever it could be called – they were good memories. It had been so black-and-white for him. If they were good, then how could she see them as anything different? He didn't really notice it until that night in her bathroom when he did _that _to her – he still couldn't bear to put the legal term to it – but now he thought he understood.   
  
Maybe she had been right when she said it was killing her. He'd hated her with a blinding fury for a day after she called it off. How could she possibly think that? Those nights had been so good, damn it!   
  
Yet he remembered the night of the earthquake. _Bring me back, Spike. Make me feel again. _ Back then, he thought he was making her feel love. Now he realized he was just making her feel alive. He still believed that she loved him, but it wasn't enough. When he brought her to climax, he could help her to feel alive and vibrant, but he couldn't break through to her heart. She wouldn't let herself give that power to him.  
  
Buffy was still a fledgling, dying and coming back time and again, both in body and spirit. And now he wasn't there to bring her back.   
  
He stared at the orange glow of the sun behind the curtains. He hoped like hell that, whatever was happening in Sunnydale right now, if she was dying then someone else was there to bring her back.   
  
Tonight, thousands of miles away from her, all he had were memories. Though he knew many were bad, some of them were so good that they still made him shiver.   
  
The train rocked side-to-side underneath him, and he remembered.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
Someone pounded at the door, and Spike yelled, "Occupied!" in English or one of the few fragments of Romanian squirreled away in his head; he didn't know which. Brain wasn't cooperating well at present, skittering off into a dozen different directions, a hundred different memories.  
  
That was when he realized that he was brooding.  
  
Brooding. Imagine that.  
  
Best not to imagine it, though. The one thing he'd vowed to himself when he stepped on the plane in Los Angeles was that whatever might happen, he would _not _turn into Angel. He refused to become mired in remorse and guilt, longing to change things that could never be changed.  
  
As the sun behind the heavy shades shifted from afternoon to dusk, Spike pondered this problem. What was brooding, anyway? He'd always avoided people who did that sort of thing. The vampires and demons with whom he spent the past century were wild and hardly introspective. They reveled in the kill, the sheer exhilaration of being on the cusp of forever. Too many things to do, too much fun to be had to spend any time moping and regretting. He never saw them regret, nor did he think twice about anything he did. The idea was foreign, incomprehensible.  
  
He remembered all the times that Buffy told him he was incapable of love because he didn't have a soul. Such an assertion was completely daft. Loving was what he did. It filled his body. It _was _his soul. Drusilla took the soul away the night she killed him, and the hollow space it left was filled with an overwhelming passion for everything she gave him. All the new colors of the world, the tang of blood that danced through him as he inhaled and drank. The way she touched him, let him love her.   
  
The train rocked underneath him and he thought about Buffy's mantra. Realizing that he understood her now surprised him. Oh, he still thought she was completely wrong, but he knew now why she said what she did. It was what she had to believe to do her job. If the soulless were incapable of having true feelings, then they were expendable in the name of saving humanity.   
  
_Okay, I'll grant her that, _he thought. Easier to dust a vampire if she believed that it was merely a killing machine. God knows he was damned lucky to have escaped dusting all those times before the chip.   
  
The problem was that he had been so _good _for her ever since that night of his dream epiphany. Loving her was motivation enough to turn his back on it all. She couldn't love a killer, so he wouldn't be a killer, even if he could.   
  
Spike thought about all the people who had banged on the couchette door over the past fifteen hours, and how they'd irritated the hell out of him. If he could kill them for daring to disturb him, would he? Wouldn't have given it a second thought six years ago. If Drusilla were around, she'd have taken out half the train by now. He'd seen her do that enough times, and he'd gleefully joined in.  
  
If he could kill again, would he?   
  
_No. _   
  
Each official who knocked on the door to check Spike's passport was just doing a job. The tourists who barged in were looking for a place to stay. The idiots didn't bother to notice the "occupied" tag on the door latch, but that didn't make them worthy of dying.   
  
He wondered what made someone worthy of dying. What did it take? Spike remembered sitting in Giles' house watching television in those ghastly days just after the chip. Some blokes were debating capital punishment on CNN, and the whole idea of it grated on his nerves. "Oh, please," he'd sneered. "You humans think killing is wrong. Whatever. But you're going to kill some git just to prove that it was wrong for him to kill someone else? That's a bloody stupid idea."   
  
Giles had stared at him for nearly ten minutes, until Spike finally growled and said, "What?" The subject was dropped. It was all just logic to him. The demon inside may have sloughed away his soul, but it didn't throw out his intellect.   
  
Now Spike realized that logic was to him what humans called a soul.   
  
_Huh. Imagine that._  
  
His mind went back to Angel. Bloody fool, with his furrowed brow and "woe is me" attitude. _Never gonna be like him,_ Spike reminded himself. Then he remembered that the attitude and brow were what Buffy held up as proof of Angel's worth.  
  
Shit.  
  
Spike began to pace around the tiny compartment, though it was barely more than two steps back and forth. What the bloody hell was he supposed to do? Go back to Sunnydale and say, "I'm so sorry that I killed all those people, Buffy. I shall cry and furrow my brow and beat my chest to show you how much I regret it?"  
  
Bugger that.  
  
Then he realized the scope of the problem. What's done was done. Yes, he killed. No getting around that. It was what vampires did. Bloodlust, the demon imperative, and all that. Mourning and brooding wouldn't bring them back, would it?   
  
Spike scrunched up his face, pouted his lips, and looked down at the floor. Damned good Angel impersonation, he had to admit.   
  
He couldn't see himself in the reflection of the glass, but he just knew how ridiculous he looked. The mental image made him burst into laughter. He could just see himself whining "sorry this" and "forgive me that" like an idiot.  
  
God, he was in a mess. If he wanted the girl back, he'd have to brood. Spike grinned. Yeah, and if he did that, she'd take one look at him and fall down laughing at how stupid he looked.   
  
"This is me," he proclaimed to the imaginary Buffy standing in front of him. "Got a soul. Not going to kill. Don't even want to anymore. But don't expect me to brood. Never gonna happen."  
  
His shoulders felt lighter, and his chest puffed up.  
  
It didn't even begin to solve his problems, but as the train rumbled under his feet, he thought just maybe he was on the right track.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Even the stale air inside the train felt fresh as he made his way along the corridor. The train refused to give him any allowances; he jerked side to side like a drunken sailor. Best thing about lack of circulation was that he wouldn't be sporting any bruises from getting tossed into a wall when the train bounced along the tracks.  
  
He jangled through car after car, trying to find the source of the loud laughter that had finally beckoned him out of the awful couchette. When he finally found it, he had to stop and stare.   
  
"I'll be damned," he muttered to himself. He didn't think the train had a dining car, but there it was. If he hadn't given up Christianity when he was turned, he would've fallen to his knees and prayed.   
  
Suddenly he felt like a git as he stood there, trying to find a decent place to sit. Too many memories of standing at the front of the dining hall all those decades ago, terrified of being rejected by classmates. _Bugger that,_ Spike thought. _He sprawled out on an unoccupied bench. Go where I please, do what I want, and if you don't want me around, tough._  
  
Calling it a "dining car" did it a disservice. A dozen or so picnic table-ish benches were crammed into the car, and a man in a ratty uniform sat at one end, smoking with one hand and holding onto a cart handle with another. Spike didn't bother going over to see what was for sale. He'd had Hungarian food before, and didn't care to repeat the experience, though not for lack of taste. No matter how gloriously spicy the paprika was, he wasn't in the mood to have it sloshing around inside him.   
  
He surveyed the occupants and found himself wanting to talk to somebody local. Didn't know why, except that most everyone he'd talked to in the past two weeks spoke English, and the idea of trying to carry on a conversation using the approximately twenty-seven Hungarian words he knew was appealing. Unfortunately, all the locals were busy conversing in groups and didn't look like they wanted company.   
  
Spike shrugged and pulled a flask of blood out of the pocket of the jacket he'd bought when the train stopped in Sofia, Bulgaria, and he'd ventured across the street from the station at dusk. It was ugly, practically military-looking, but at least it was a change of pace.  
  
When he clued into the conversation at the next table, he nearly groaned. Bloody American backpackers. He'd seen tons of them back when Drusilla and he were there five years ago. They all tasted of stale beer and the bread and fruit they squirreled away in their backpacks because they were too cheap to spring for decent meals.   
  
And they were loud too. He could smell the red wine on one of the kids' breath as she said, "You know what I miss most? James Earl Jones saying 'This is CNN.' I don't even _like _CNN, but for some stupid reason, all I have to do is hear that in my head and suddenly I'm ready to hop the first plane back to Georgia."  
  
Spike laughed in spite of himself. When he looked up, the kids were staring at him.  
  
"You American?" one of them asked.  
  
He stopped and thought about that for a second. "Yeah, from California."  
  
"No you're not. You're from, like, England or something, aren't you?" Spike would've dismissed the kid as an utter imbecile if he didn't know that the boy was probably too drunk to form coherent thought.   
  
"Is that a problem?" Spike taunted, but he found himself turning around to face them, drawn into the conversation.  
  
The girl's face broke into a grin. "Nah, it's cool. You can talk to us if you want."  
  
"Thanks ever so," he muttered in response, but they didn't seem to pick up on the sarcasm.   
  
"What's your name?" the girl asked.   
  
Might as well play the Englishman to the hilt. "Alistair."   
  
Her smile grew wider. "Nice to meet you! I'm Heather, and this idiot who thinks he's my boyfriend is Trey."  
  
They started talking again, laughing at some obscure joke, but Spike tuned out the conversation. He examined the girl's face. Must be about twenty-two or so, same age as Buffy and her cartoon pals. But there was something different about them. He could feel the souls inside their bodies, all airy and carefree. The whole world in front of them. Stealing away for a few months to travel Europe before going back home and starting office jobs or starting a rock band, whatever. No worries at all beyond whether they could find a cheap youth hostel in Prague, and if Daddy would yell at them for maxing out the credit card.   
  
Spike drank blood from his flask while they downed red wine and what was probably cheap vodka in tacky souvenir shot glasses. Heather and Trey were caught in the glories of reminiscence, and he found himself drawn into the conversation when they began debating which of two crap rock bands was better. Spike spoke up in defense of the Ramones, and they just rolled their eyes at the old guy who wasn't "with it."   
  
Once that would've angered him, but now it was just amusing. Something about the blitheness of their youth was endearing, but he couldn't pinpoint why.  
  
As the train rumbled through Hungary in the wee hours of the morning, he let himself get caught up in that ephemeral sense of youth and glee.   
  
He'd felt this way before – at the Bronze, shooting the shit with the Scoobs last summer, playing poker at Buffy's birthday party – but it just _felt _different now. Maybe that was the soul too. It helped him see these drunken, foolish kids for what they were, not as a meal or an annoyance. And he could see them: the mistakes and triumphs of their pasts, and the glittery thread of their futures unspooling before him. They reminded him of Buffy, Xander, Willow, even Dawn, if all of them hadn't gotten so damned caught up in Hellmouths and vampires. Things would be so different in a world like that. Spike wouldn't have Buffy, but she could be normal. Happier.  
  
Heather lit a cigarette and offered Spike one. He took it from her, then he was surprised when she leaned forward, assuming that she would just light it as he inhaled. When he did so, they made eye contact and he saw the innocence, the life in her gaze.  
  
The moment snapped back like a rubber band, and she smiled at Trey as if nothing had happened. Maybe nothing had, but the look of her eyes filled Spike's mind.  
  
He remembered the sound of Buffy's voice as she whispered, "How do you live forever? Bring me back to life, Spike."   
  
Life was all around him in this rickety dining car coasting along the Trans-Balkan railway. It was in the way the two backpackers couldn't stop laughing, and in the way everyone was waiting to get to their destinations so they could leave the train and go on with the business of living.   
  
In that moment, he wanted more than anything to see that look of innocence and life in Buffy's eyes. He knew it would never be in his, and he felt a sudden fear that she was too far gone, too hopeless for that. How could a girl who begged him to bring her back to life ever feel innocent?   
  
Alhough he knew better on an intellectual level, something in his soul gave him a surge of hope. It made anything seem possible.   
  
He wanted to be the one to put that look in her eyes.  
  
He wondered if he could.  
  
  


  


* * *

END, Chapter Nine  


wisteria@smyrnacable.net  


  
  



	10. Prague

* * *

**Ten Thousand**  
by wisteria

_10. Prague_  


* * *

  
The K-Mart was gone.  
  
Spike stood before its former home and mourned its passing. Bloody brilliant place, that had been. Imperial capitalist dogma planted smack in the middle of the former Communist Bloc. Every time he'd gone in, he would laugh at the irony.   
  
Back then, he'd had a love-hate relationship with it. Loved that he could get all kinds of creature comforts there, like compact discs and socks that didn't itch, and the crowning glory had been the Little Caesar's pizza joint on the ground floor. Hated that all the good stuff was locked in plexiglass display cases. Made it nearly impossible to nick. The whole thing was so damned American too, that they couldn't trust the locals to be above-board and purchase things.   
  
It'd been replaced by a British grocery chain store. The place looked quite posh inside, but the thrill was gone. Spike bowed his head in tribute, then walked down Národní toward the bridge. When he passed Café Mucha, he stopped and stared.  
  
Sonia wasn't there anymore. She never would be again.  
  


* * *

  
  
_Every night, it's the same story. Drusilla sits on the bench opposite Café Mucha and watches the waitress flitting from table to table. She is stalking the young woman, as methodically as Dru can manage to do. Spike still doesn't know why the waitress was chosen, but then he doesn't know why his princess does half the things she does. Last night they'd found out that her name was Sonia, and tonight Dru claps her hands and sings, "Sonia! Sonia!" in a childish voice. She leans over and whispers in his ear, "Tonight we shall fly away home with the bird."   
  
He hates the pedantry of this, but he understands why. For the past month, she's been harping about Angelus, saying that she's going to do something to make Daddy proud. Spike knows the story of how his princess was turned, how Angelus had methodically stalked her, killing her family and driving her mad. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. While Dru doesn't have a sincere bone in her body, Angelus still has a hold on her. Spike cringes every time she croons his name even though the poofter has been gone for nearly a century.   
  
Drusilla sings her song, and Spike grits his teeth. Only another hour until closing time, and then they can bloody get on with the killing. _  
  


* * *

  
  
At least some things never changed. Spike approached the gate to the Charles Bridge, and a man caught his eye. He recognized the bloke. Still had the same shock of white hair curling over his face and the loud voice calling, "Toys for your children!"   
  
Spike circled around the booth until the man's back was to him. Even in the darkness, the bright colors of the marionettes he sold were blinding. A young couple approached the kiosk. With a flick of his wrist, the man sent a doll dancing along the cobblestones, and the couple laughed. The doll was all strings and jerky movements, pulled every which way at the salesman's whim.  
  
"I know the feeling," Spike muttered under his breath.   
  
Though he seriously doubted the man recognized him, Spike kept to the shadows, squeezing through the narrow space between gate and souvenir stand. Then he was on the Charles Bridge.   
  
He stopped to stare at the statues and the Vltava River below. The Prazsky Hrad loomed above the city, bathed in yellow light and the grandeur that only castles seemed to possess. It was nearly midnight, but the city was bathed in light that shimmered off the river and pulsed with life.  
  
Spike loved Prague with a passion. He hated Drusilla for taking it away from him.  
  


* * *

  
  
_The tram rattles like old bones as it climbs the suburban hills. Sonia stands near the front, and Spike sits near the back. Drusilla leans into him, licking a line from his collar to his ear, but he can sense her eyes staring at Sonia the whole time. Even when she's tender, she is on the hunt.   
  
He knows what she plans to do, and it annoys him even before it's begun. Spike would much rather just grab Sonia's arm, haul her off of the tram, and snap her neck. At least then they could be done with it and have some fun again. There were some seriously soused people at Café Mucha, and Spike knew that they'd be itching for a good fight right about now. But this is Drusilla's game, and she is his dark queen. He always joins in her blood games.  
  
As the tram turns onto a bland boulevard, Sonia pulls the cord to signal a stop. "Time to go, love," he leans over to whisper in Dru's ear, but she's already stalking toward the exit. It shudders to a stop, and they step off with a handful of other people.   
  
They follow Sonia as she goes down a street of hideous semi-detached houses, all stucco and post-Communist prefab. It's nearly midnight, but there are people out and about. This is one of his favorite things about Prague. People keep hours suited to him, as if they were all just waiting for the vamps to come out and play.  
  
Drusilla begins to laugh, and he scans the street to see what has caught her fancy. Sonia is talking to a man outside what must be her home. The bloke is older, maybe her father.   
  
Her voice jubilant and pure, Drusilla sings, "Spread your wings and fly, my sparrow!" She dances up the street.  
  
At the sound of the vampire's voice, Sonia and her father turn and stare._  
  


* * *

  
Capitalism had a firm grip on the city's pulse, draining the blood away as expertly as Spike could ever have done. He slowly walked across the wide expanse of bridge and counted no fewer than twenty vendors hawking anything that a tourist might fancy. They called out to him, though Spike knew he was just a symbol to them – a tourist with money in his pockets, easy to wheedle into buying things he didn't need.  
  
He walked over to his favorite statue. Cast in concrete blackened by smog, a man in long robes stood in a classic pose. One hand rested over his heart, and the other held a book. Though he hated that part of his life when he was human, even now Spike was drawn to the familiar pose. He didn't miss being a laughingstock with his head in the clouds, but he did miss the strange alchemy of learning, of reading classical texts and filling his head with their images.  
  
Even before he felt the finger on his shoulder, Spike sensed someone approaching. He whipped around and saw a woman smiling up at him. A Polaroid camera hung from her neck, and in broken English, she asked, "Do you like a photograph? Only fifteen Koruna."  
  
He stared at her, but she was too quick for him. A bright flash of light, then he heard the mechanical whir of the photo being processed. She smiled as she flicked the photo to develop it, and Spike wanted to walk away with a curse and a "go to hell."   
  
But as she held out the photo to him, he glanced down at it and saw the faintest outline of his body. It was hard to make out, but it was there. It'd been ages since he had a photo of himself. Wild curiosity pulled him back from the desire to walk away.  
  
He shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a few Euros. Not her currency, but he doubted she'd mind.   
  
Lamps bathed the bridge in near-daylight. Entranced, he stared at himself in the photograph as he slowly walked across.

  


* * *

_  
Excitement sparks from Drusilla's body as she approaches Sonia and her father. Spike walks a few steps behind her, and her energy fills him and whets his appetite. Never been one for the old fashioned stalk, but this is starting to become fun.  
  
"Who are you?" the father calls out in Czech.   
  
It's one of the few languages both he and Drusilla speak. She murmurs, "I am your black angel," in Czech. Then she says in English, "Do you feel it, my William? Angel is here! I can sense him."  
  
He mutters, "No, he isn't, pet," but she doesn't hear him. She's playing her game.   
  
His princess is smooth and cunning. One long arm reaches toward them, and her black-tipped nails trace swirls in the air. Her intensity can overpower even the most staid human, and Spike knows its power. It has consumed him for the past century, and tonight it consumes the father and daughter who are her target.  
  
She sways side-to-side in her perfect dance, and the two Czechs join the minuet. Spike wants to go up and finish the job; he can already taste their blood on his tongue. But this is Drusilla's game to play, and he gives her the kill. They will revel in the spoils together.  
  
The sound of one neck cracking and then another echoes down the street. Before the bodies can begin to fall, he catches the father and Drusilla cradles Sonia. She shifts into game face and sinks her teeth into the young woman's neck..   
  
"I thought you were going to drive them mad," he asks her before taking his own bite.  
  
With a bloody smile, she looks up at him. Her eyes glitter and oh, he loves her so. "I didn't want to wait anymore." She leans down and licks a line from Sonia's ear to her collar, just like she had done to him in the tram. When she leans over to kiss Spike, her mouth suddenly moves from his lips to his ear. "Now my birdie is flying for me."_

  


* * *

  
When he reached the other side of the bridge, he saw the old outdoor café along the riverbank where he and Drusilla would go after a good kill, their stomachs full of blood that sang inside them. He didn't want to go there again, didn't want to sit there and remember how they would look at the other patrons and guess how their blood would taste.   
  
He stood at the railing under the lamplight and stared at it. Tourists and locals filled the tables. That was always part of its charm. It felt real, instead of quaintness manufactured in the name of attracting visitors. Even though he didn't want the memories, he was drawn to the café all the same.   
  
So he walked down the long staircase to the riverbank and found an unoccupied table. The waitress approached him for his order, and Spike froze.   
  
Not Sonia. Couldn't be her. She was dead. He had painted hearts and stars on Drusilla's cheeks with her blood.   
  
Spike blinked, When he looked up again, he saw that it wasn't her. Just another young woman who had the same bright eyes and suspicious set to her chin. In a voice that surprised him with its calm, he ordered a peach vodka. The stuff was dreadful, but he'd mixed it with the blood into a sweet cocktail seven years ago. For him, it tasted of Prague.  
  
Voices buzzed around him, but he tuned them out. The light there was dimmer, more atmospheric, creating a deliberate sense of romance that kept people coming back.   
  
But his eyes were better than humans', and he could see clearly. He placed the photograph on the table and pressed his palms on either side of it.   
  
Spike stared at the image of his face. The flash had cast him in a strange light, making the planes of his face look dark and sinister. His black clothes swallowed the light until he looked like a disembodied head hovering next to the book that the statue held.   
  
The image churned in his gut. In the photograph, he saw evil.   
  
He wondered if this was how Buffy saw him.

  


* * *

_  
The father is in the way, so Spike tosses him to the ground. Sonia's body is wedged between them, her head poking into his stomach. He wants to grab her head and crush her skull, to feel the rush of power as his hands destroy bone and scalp. When he looks down at her neck, he sees a long stream of blood pouring from her nearly-empty body. One arm holds Drusilla close, and his other hand dips down to Sonia's neck and bathes his fingers in red.   
  
He brings his hand up to his princess's face and coronates her with a star drawn on her forehead. His love, his queen.  
  
A loud sound snaps his head back. He jerks around and sees three men advancing on them. One carries a battery torch. Another has a gun.   
  
The second shot hits Spike in the arm. Only a flesh wound, and instead of hurting him, it thrills him. Even in the darkness, he can see the fury on their faces. They scream at him in Czech, their voices too hoarse and loud for him to make out the words.  
  
He thinks this night couldn't possibly get any better. Now he gets to do his own dance.  
  
Drusilla coos and giggles as she does a waltz around Sonia's body, which is now in a heap on the ground. Spike swaggers forward, his tongue testing his fangs and his fists curled to strike.   
  
Then a woman joins the men, and she begins to scream words in a language he does not know. Bitter chants and hands raised to the heavens.  
  
Spike feels the air shifting around them. The woman's eyes glow, and for a second he thinks she might be a vampire too. But when her hand cuts a swath through the air, he knows what is happening.   
  
Panicked, he looks back at Drusilla. Her whole body is glowing too, and her face freezes in a scream. She crumbles to the ground next to Sonia.   
  
Turning his back on the growing crowd of humans, he chants, "Princess! Oh, hell. No!" Everything is so bright, so chaotic, and for a second he thinks she has been dusted. But when he touches her, she's still solid. She quivers under his hand.  
  
The dance is over.   
  
He pulls her limp body up from the ground and tightens his arms around her. The screaming in his mind deafens the shouts of the mob. With Drusilla's unconscious body in his arms, he runs away.  
_  


* * *

All Spike tasted was the vodka, and its sugary peach tang made him wince. It was far better with the blood mixer, but he'd forgotten to bring the flask with him tonight. Screwing up his face, he downed the small glass with one flick of his wrist, then he slammed it back on the table. The photograph shivered with the impact.   
  
He looked around at the others in the café, and he wondered if any of them had known Sonia. He and Dru had literally painted the town red back then. The collateral damage had probably spread wide. Even in the midst of this strange new melancholia, the idea of playing "Six Degrees of Spike and Drusilla" brought a half-smile to his face.  
  
The waitress came by and asked if he wanted another peach vodka. With a wince, he ran his tongue over his teeth and still tasted the sickly sweetness. "Coca-Cola, thanks," he muttered, and she disappeared.  
  
He stared at the photograph.   
  
It reminded him of the old sepia photos he'd took with Drusilla all those years ago. The sky was black, but the castle loomed yellow in the background, and his own face was cast in yellow-white light. He looked like a ghost, all startled eyes and half-open mouth. Spike picked it up and examined his eyes, trying to see the soul in them.   
  
This was the new him, worn down by the chip and experience, with a hidden soul lurking behind those eyes. This was what Buffy saw when she looked at him, though minus the soul. It was what she would see when he returned to Sunnydale. No wonder she couldn't trust, couldn't love him.  
  
The waitress returned with the Coke, and he pulled out some money for her. She disappeared, and he sipped the drink slowly as he took the pulse of the café.  
  
A man approached the next table, asking the couple if they wanted a photograph. Must be the new tourist trap here. They waved him away, and the man scanned the crowd for more takers.  
  
Spike waved him over. "How much for the camera and film?"  
  
The cameraman stared at him. He was young, and the crease of his brow as he processed the question looked strange on his smooth face. Then he said, "Not for sale."  
  
For the first time since he'd arrived in Prague that morning and cloistered himself in a hotel to sleep the day away, he was seized by an irrational craving. Staring the bloke straight in the eyes, he offered the man the equivalent of a hundred bucks in Czech Korunas.   
  
That did the trick. The battered Polaroid and four packets of film were out of his bag and on the café table before Spike finished counting out the money. Spike handed it over and the man vanished, probably hoping to get away before Spike second-guessed the deal.  
  
Dropping the film in his backpack, Spike got up and started walking through the Mala Strana, through cobblestoned alleyways and medieval buildings. This was what he loved most about Prague – the feeling that he'd stepped into a fairy tale. Seven years ago, he'd felt himself the wicked snake-charmer, hellbent on tasting the blood of the villagers. Now he wondered if he was the snake.  
  
As he slowly walked up the hills, he practiced his smile. He wanted to go to the castle and take a photograph, and another across the river in front of the Art Nouveau panels of the cafes there. Maybe yet another in front of Café Mucha. He would smile in each one of them, and create images of someone that Buffy could trust and love.  
  
The city pulsed around him, and turned his back to the taste of its blood.  
  
  


  


* * *

END, Chapter Ten  


wisteria@smyrnacable.net  


  
  
  



	11. Berlin

* * *

**Ten Thousand**  
by wisteria

_11. Berlin_  


* * *

  
The shift from third world to first was nearly tangible. Spike walked the streets an hour after sunset, and stores were still open. Large stores, too, full of posh things he wanted to buy. Strange experience for him, but just one of a long line of oddnesses. Since when was he in the mood to _buy _things?   
  
He told himself it was because nicking stuff was such a hassle. At the very least, if he got caught he'd have to deal with the police and deportation and all that shit. Long way from Sunnydale now, after all. The coppers here didn't turn a blind eye to demons and vampires. No, they either ran, screamed and shot, or else created one hell of a mess during the interrogation.   
  
He remembered getting stuck at the Magic Box one day last summer. Couldn't remember exactly why he'd been there overnight, but the sun rose and he was stuck there with Anya. Yeah, he could've just headed home through the sewers, but home meant staring at blank walls and thinking about death – Buffy's own, and the one he was craving for himself.   
  
At least Anya was a good conversationalist, and hanging out at the shop had kept his mind off things. After listening to her rattle on about capitalism for an hour, he'd finally started channeling Marx, just to get her riled up and have a bit of fun. The debate had descended into flag-waving jingoism and "Go back to England, then, if you're so fond of socialism!" before they were interrupted by the first customers of the day.  
  
Anya would love Berlin. He could just see her traipsing down the streets of the East, going up to strangers and chirping, "Congratulations for rejecting outdated socialist dogma! May you enjoy the benefits of the democratic way of life!" Hell, she'd probably hand them a little American flag.   
  
Spike wandered into a bookstore and browsed around for a bit. He'd made it through four of Lucy's novels, then tossed them all. Bland self-conscious rubbish. Another good thing about Berlin was that the bookstore had a decent selection of English-language science fiction. He loaded up on a half-dozen, then he grabbed a copy of The Communist Manifesto for Anya, on a lark. Never would give it to her, he suspected, but just imagining the look on her face made him laugh.  
  
He went to the counter and handed over his credit card. This, too, was strange. He was damned _good _at stealing. Probably could've slipped all the books in his backpack without anyone noticing. Then he shrugged, remembering the whole police thing. Easier to just pay and be done with it. When he was at the hotel earlier, he'd made a call to Visa and learned that he still had a little over $9,000 on the card.   
  
Time to have some fun. Berlin was up late, and so were many of the shops on the Ku'damm. In search of creature comforts, he went to a music store and splashed out on a CD player and some discs. At least the blasted train rides would be more pleasant now. Just before it closed for the evening, he slipped into a camera shop and stared at all the options. He thought about replacing the Polaroid in his bag, but something about the battered shell appealed to him. But oh, the digital cameras were intriguing. When the shopkeeper demonstrated the video screen and how to save the pictures to a disk, Spike was entranced. There went another chunk of money off the card, but who cared?  
  
Walking down the street with his back nearly bowed from the weight of the purchases, Spike felt pumped up. He grinned, not even caring that he must look like an insane git.   
  
As he stared at the people milling about outside, he thought again about how strange this feeling was. All the times he'd traveled before, he took what he wanted and if the humans didn't like it, he would just snap their necks. Everything had been so secretive, and he'd loved the skulking and danger of it all.  
  
Now, though? Well, it was different. Didn't know how or why, but it was. He still had to do a certain amount of lurking, what with the sunlight problem and all, but tonight he felt more free than he had in ages, maybe even since the chip.  
  
He walked over to a large fountain. Oh, yes. Perfect photo-op. Two women walked by and he called over to them, "Take my picture?" Holding up the old Polaroid, he was damned grateful he still remembered plenty of German.  
  
The two young ladies looked at him then each other, and grins spread over their faces. As one approached him, he handed over the camera and asked, "What's your name, love?"   
  
She blushed and said, "Anna." Spike didn't care to go home with either of them, but it was nice to have a woman eating out of his palm for a change.  
  
He backed up to the fountain and gave his biggest smile. Though he was used to it by now, the flash still nearly blinded him. He began to step forward to get the camera back, but Anna pulled out the photo and held up a hand for him to stop. She turned to her friend and said, "Kirsten?" The other girl nodded enthusiastically. Before Spike knew it, Anna was taking a second photo.  
  
"Whatever," he muttered under his breath and went back up to retrieve his stuff.   
  
Anna only handed over one photo, slipping the other in her pocket. When he raised an eyebrow in question, she chirped, "For us."   
  
_Well, that was a good ego boost. _ He blew them an air kiss then sauntered away.  
  
Yeah, Berlin was bloody brilliant.  
  


* * *

  
  
The UBahn station was shabby but well-lit. Spike finished off the last of the blood in his flask while he waited for a train. Best thing about a posh hotel with a concierge was that if you threw enough money at her, she'd find a way to track down plenty of blood bags and even have it delivered right to your room. It'd be nice to get back to Sunnydale and its butchers when he finally did, though. The human stuff just didn't taste right.  
  
When the subway car pulled up, Spike was relieved to see that it was mostly empty. Just three other blokes who didn't warrant a second look. He found a seat near the corner and slouched down, liking the way the train rocked under him as it sped away. Hadn't been to the eastern half of the city since before the Wall. Should be fun. It had always been the most crazed part of the city.  
  
Before he heard the scream, he knew something was wrong. Eyes wide open, he jolted upright and saw two vampires advancing on a tweedy older man whose newspaper fluttered to the floor. Looked to be vicious bastards too. None of the fun of the game in the set of their shoulders, the look in their eyes. Spike knew just what they were out for – the quick kill and drain.  
  
Without a second thought, Spike stalked over and yelled the German equivalent of "Bugger off, half-wits!"   
  
God, it'd been too long since he had a spot of violence. The human was an afterthought; right now he wanted a good fight. With a flick of his wrist, he palmed the old pencil in his backpack and shoved it under the cuff of his sleeve.   
  
Vamp 1 circled around Spike, who stayed in human face. _Let 'em think they're gonna have seconds. More fun that way. _  
  
Quick as lighting, Spike spun around and shoved the wood in the first vamp's chest before he even knew what hit him. Damn, these vampires were idiots. He hoped Vamp 2 was better at it than his dearly departed friend. Time for some one-on-one action, just the way he liked it.  
  
Spike squared his shoulders and danced from foot-to-foot. When Vamp 2 let out a Cro-Magnon growl, Spike laughed right in his face. He feinted left, then right, and the other matched the moves like a pro. Aha, a slightly more worthy adversary.   
  
One punch, then another, and suddenly the other vampire lashed out with little finesse but a hell of a lot of blind rage. Spike's roundhouse kick jammed the guy in the back, but it also made contact with the metal pole. Hurt like a bitch, but he swallowed the wince and started advancing again. Another punch, and Vamp 2 was flat on his back.   
  
Spike rolled his eyes. Way too easy. He stood over the vampire and braced himself, lest the target try anything stupid. Power flowed through him as he slammed the pencil in the vamp's chest.  
  
In the split-second before Vamp 2 turned to dust, Spike blinked and suddenly saw a very different face below him.   
Vamp 2 moved in for the kill. 

_Ebony eyes and skin, a dandelion-shock of hair. Eyes pleading, "No, don't kill me. You're the one who's supposed to die."_  
  
He froze, eyes closed and blood ice-cold in his still veins.  
  
When he opened his eyes, dust littered the floor of the subway car.  
  
Spike fell to his knees, thinking, "Oh, God, what the fuck was that?"  
  
Dazed and discombobulated, he glanced around the car. It shuddered to a stop, but he didn't move. Then he saw the victim, shivering in horror against the back wall.   
  
Spike stood up and shook himself lucid again, wanting to yell at the man, "What the hell are you looking at?" But his throat was dry and the words wouldn't come.   
  
The doors opened and the man staggered toward the exit, still staring at Spike with horror. He ran out into the station, and Spike just stood there.   
  
When he pressed his palm to his forehead to get rid of the sudden non-chip headache, he felt bumps and ridges. Game-faced now, and he hadn't even realized it. Spike grit his teeth and shifted back to human again.  
  
He stumbled over to where his backpack lay in a heap on the floor. Some more people entered the other end of the car, but Spike hardly noticed. He slumped back in his seat and shut his eyes. His body kept shivering. 

  


* * *

  
  
As he walked down Unter den Linden a half-hour later, his legs still wobbled a bit. He tried to focus on the bland Communist buildings and the Reichstag in the distance, but his brain persisted in a mental slideshow he did _not _want to see.  
  
A Chinese face melted into a New Yorker's and then into Buffy's.   
  
_Every Slayer has a death wish, even you._  
  
And he was the badass vampire who had killed the first two and spent two years trying to kill the third.   
  
Badass vampires didn't walk down Berlin boulevards, their backpacks full of electronics and purloined blood. They didn't dust other vampires in a subway car and all over the streets of Sunnydale. And they damned well didn't fall in love with Slayers.  
  
God, he was a sorry excuse for a badass.  
  
"Fuck all!" he shouted, and he didn't care who heard him.  
  
He scrubbed at his face. It was nearly enough to wipe away the mental slideshow. He pumped up his strength and got rid of the rest. He was supposed to be all pumped up with the thrill of capitalism, right? No point in getting all worked up over who killed who.  
  
A bright light and small crowd of people caught his attention as he walked past some university buildings. Spike ventured over there, hoping for a good distraction. When he got there, the sight wasn't what he expected at all.   
  
A large panel of glass covered a stark white room below, consisting of four walls of what looked like empty bookshelves. Spike stepped back a few paces to read the plaque. It told of the Nazi book burnings in 1933, and the memorial warned that when books are burned, free thought dies.  
  
Spike pondered that, grateful that it was a distraction from the earlier mess. Intolerance? Yeah, he knew all about that. The man on the UBahn had fled in terror at the sight of Spike's fangs. He remembered Aziz back in Cairo – the bloke who'd had to give up his girlfriend because she couldn't deal with his nationality. Hell, that was the story of his life back in Sunnydale, right? Maybe things would've been different with Buffy if she'd just dealt with the fact that she was screwing a vampire and maybe even falling in love with one.  
  
He joined the dozen or so others clustered around the memorial. Everyone looked down into the empty space, the glow from within lighting them in an unearthly glow. When he refocused his eyes, what Spike saw – or didn't see – made him shiver.  
  
Twelve faces reflected in the glass. One was missing: his.  
  
Reflections didn't lie, did they?   
  
He didn't exist.  
  


* * *

  
  
As the sun rose over Berlin, Spike sat on the bed of his hotel room. Twenty-three photographs were spread on the coverlet.   
  
He picked them up, one-by-one, and stared at the images of himself.  
  
_Standing in front of the castle in Prague.   
Leaning against a train window on the way to Berlin.  
Sitting on a bench when the train stopped in Dresden._  
  
He was smiling in each one of them, but it looked forced and hollow. Not real. Just a show to put on for whomever he'd grabbed to take the snapshot. Something to prove to Buffy that he wasn't evil, that he was real.  
  
Each time he finished looking at the set of photographs, he would come back to the first shot in Prague. The others made him look lousy at smiling, but he could convince himself it was just surface.   
  
That first photo, though... it felt real.   
  
Which image was the true Spike? A forced smile or a startled face bathed in harsh light?   
  
He stacked the photos and went through them yet again, one by one, looking for the real him.  
  
  
  


* * *

END, Chapter Eleven  


  
  



	12. Amsterdam

* * *

**Ten Thousand**  
by wisteria

_12. Amsterdam_  


* * *

  
His tongue must be halfway down her throat, and her hands were pawing him so hard he'd probably be flayed within a half-hour.   
  
"Idiots in love," Spike muttered then turned away from the giggling couple who'd been all over each other since he'd arrived at the coffeehouse.   
  
Bloody stupid to think that he could just get stoned and forget about everything. The only thing the pot did to him was bring on the brood.   
  
The whole time on the overnighter from Zoobanhof, he'd been planning this. Arrive in Amsterdam and find the closest coffeehouse. Proceed to spend the next thirty-six hours in a brown haze, all cheerful and trippy. 'Course, things didn't turn out that way. Never did.   
  
The train had arrived at 9:30 in the morning, and his only stroke of luck had been the light rain that that kept the sky overcast enough for him to get from Centraal to the nearest budget hotel, even though he felt like a royal git huddled under the stupid blanket still left over from Uganda. Slept the day away – no nightmares, at least – then stumbled out into the night in search of the nearest place to get trashed.   
  
An hour later, the hash was mostly just ash, and he was still lucid and depressed. Even worse, he just had to pick a place that was apparently the biggest pick-up spot in town. Half the people there were either looking for some action or well on their way to getting it.   
  
He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was okay. Didn't work.   
  
A hundred-plus years of memories to draw on. Hell, three weeks of travel to some pretty damned fascinating climes. He should have been able to see a million different brilliant images in his mental slideshow.  
  
But the eyes that had seen the world go from quaint Victoriana to blinding cyber-neon could see nothing but the way her face had looked when she walked toward him in that delicious moment before their first kiss.  
  
A bit of curl at the ends of her hair. Huge green eyes like mint, and when she moved so close he could feel her cool breath, he saw himself in them. Lips parted, begging to be kissed. So he had. His hands on strong shoulders that felt so small that night. She had tasted of silver, of sugary cola, of the heaven of which she'd sang.   
  
It had been one of those moments when everything and nothing seemed possible.   
  
Oh, god, he missed her, more than a soulless thing ever should. He loved her. The soul hadn't changed that. Nothing ever would.  
  
He opened his eyes and pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket. The hash had been a bust, but at least some good old nicotine would get rid of the jitters. When he lit a match – cursing himself again for forgetting the Zippo back in Berlin – he saw the dozen couples in the room, all getting kisses that he may never get again.  
  
"Get over it," he muttered to himself. "Time to move on, Spike."  
  
The smoky air swirled around him as he stalked out of the coffeehouse and into the damp night.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The 'net café off Reguliersbreestraat was bland but efficient, done up in orange and white. No fuss. Rather like Amsterdam, really. The man at the counter sold drinks, candy and, of course, space cakes, but Spike ignored it all in favor of alternating between his flask of blood and a huge mug of hot chocolate and cream. Reminded him of home.   
  
First stop was Lucy's website, where he read her journal. He was a bit disappointed to see that she hadn't commemorated his visit; then again, it was all just archeology technicalities. No room for him in it. Still, was nice to see that life marched onward.  
  
Then he went over to his e-mail. Slogged through the inevitable spam until he found another message from Clem. Ah, good. He'd almost forgotten about the Western Union thing.   
  
The mail was typically Clem, too. Made him smile for a change.  
  


_Spike?   
  
Okay. First off, I am SO sorry!!! I swear to Rabista that I'll have everything fixed by when you get home. See, here's the deal: you said I could make myself at home, right? Well, um... I did. I know this C'inok demon who's got a sweet gig with AT&T Broadband, and since he owed me some favors (kittens not litterbox trained, 'nuff said) I thought I'd surprise you with digital cable and high-speed internet. Except it kinda didn't work. Don't worry, I'll have everything cleaned up. Promise! Right now I'm at that coffee place downtown.  
  
Anyway! =) Yay to hearing from you!! I just knew everything would work out, Mr. Mopey. Yeah, I gave Dawn the money. She had all sorts of questions, but I kept my mouth shut. Are ya proud of me?  
  
Oh, that reminds me! Like, a day or so after you left, the Slayer brought Dawn by (which is how I know her now) and asked me to let her hang out at your place because some seriously weird stuff was happening in town (but I'll tell you all about that later.) She seemed pretty upset that you were gone, and she really wanted to know when you'd get back. Maybe there's something still there after all, Spikey! ::wink::  
  
Okay, gotta go. This place costs a fortune! :o But as a little 'oops, sorry for messing up your TV' present, I made you this webpage.   
  
Clem._   


  
  
When the web page loaded, Spike wondered if he was more stoned than he thought. Huge smiley face vampire, American flag fluttering, tacky kitten background, and the huge words, "Hi Spike!!! See you soon, Clem." The visual assault damn near made his eyes bleed. He half-expected to see a giant rabbit hopping across.  
  
But as he stared at it, he found himself beginning to grin. He had a friend who cared enough to make him a cheesy web page.   
  
_Huh. Imagine that._  
  
Tipping the flask to his lips, Spike took a sip and noticed that he was almost out of blood. At least he had a couple of bags left back at the hotel, and he knew through the grapevine of a vampire in London who could fix him up with some more.   
  
He re-read the e-mail, and something else hit him. Buffy had asked about him. She missed him too, or so Clem thought. Wow.  
  
His smile grew wider.   
  
The "print" button was clicked before he thought to find out whether he could print on these computers. When he heard the whirr of the printer gearing up, he shrugged and went over to it. Then he glanced up at the counter and saw that printed pages were a Euro each. Spike rolled his eyes. Buggering ripoff.  
  
But when he looked down at the laser-printed e-mail, all posh graphics and clear words, he couldn't help but feel a little thrill. She'd been upset that he was gone. Sure, he could just chalk that up to her being pissed off that he wasn't there for a good staking, but he knew her better that that. And one thing he knew full well was that Buffy didn't talk to anyone else about him, unless it was to deny her involvement.   
  
Spike knew he was probably jumping to conclusions, but this "hope" thing felt damned good.   
  
Getting the tab for the session took him down a notch or two. Sixteen Euros per hour? Now, that was evil. Made him want to nick something out of spite.   
  
First, he wanted to remember this. While the clerk was sorting out his change, Spike reached into his backpack and pulled out the camera. "Take a picture?" he asked.  
  
The clerk stared back like Spike was the most pathetic fool in civilization. Made Spike think that theft wasn't good enough for the bastard; even fangs in the neck would be a kindness. With all the grace of an elephant in a tutu, Clerk Boy reached for the camera and proceeded to knock some candy onto the floor. When he bent down to pick them up, Spike seized the moment, slipping a pack of fags from the display into his pocket. 'Still got the touch,' he thought with a grin. Didn't feel guilty, either. Bastard deserved it.  
  
Still smiling, he waited for the clerk to take the picture. At least the flash wasn't any more blinding than the harsh lights of the café. The man handed the camera and picture over, then went back to his magazine. Spike looked him straight in the eye and said – in Spanish, since he didn't much care to get a migraine from the potential fight – "I hope your girlfriend laughs at your tiny penis."  
  
Damn, that felt good.  
  
As he walked out of the storefront, Spike flicked the photo rapidly to develop it. A block away, he stood under the glow of one of the tacky sex shops of the Walletjes. A prostitute halfheartedly preened in the window behind him, but he barely noticed her. The piece of carbon and paper in his hand was far more interesting.  
  
In the photograph, he saw a bloke in a faded black long-sleeved shirt. Brown roots peeking out from under whitish hair. Deathly pale skin. Eyes tinted red from the flash. And a stupid grin because the love of his life apparently missed him.  
  
Best picture yet.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Good moods never did last very long for him.   
  
Two hours later, he was stalking along the Herengracht canal, in hopes that the pace would knock some sense into his damned brain. Wasn't working very well.   
  
He'd spent the past hour rehearsing his first conversation with Buffy when he got back to Sunnydale. Not all the scenarios were bad. His current favorite involved him murmuring, "Miss me, pet?" as she dragged him up to her bedroom and proceeded to shag him senseless for the following three days. 'Course, that was also the least likely.  
  
No, the past couple of hours had convinced him that something else was far more likely. Couldn't quite decide what, but it would probably involve silence or fighting. The two of them were certainly good at the latter. Silence had never been them, though, since he'd never been able to keep his mouth bloody well shut. Oh, she was great at the silent treatment, but that all went to hell whenever he'd open his gob. Buffy'd always come back with some retort. She probably though they were witty. They hurt.  
  
He stopped in the middle of a low canal bridge and forced himself to think of the worst-case scenario – one that had been lurking in his head for weeks now.  
  
_"I've got a soul now," he would tell her. "Did it all for you, pet. Wanted to be good enough for you."  
  
Then she would look him in the eye and say, her voice like ice, "You'll never be good enough."_  
  
He scrubbed at his face with his hands, not knowing what to make of that one. He knew she was smarter than that. Bloody brilliant, she was. A bit stupid about her own emotions, but the girl had instincts that impressed even him, and he'd seen some damned good fighters over the past century-plus. He expected more out of her. Always had, which was why he kept coming back after all her rejections. Knew some feeling for him was lurking under all those stupid walls she put up.   
  
Thinking about that sent his head down to rest along the rail. He'd said as much to her that night in her bathroom, right? She'd made it perfectly clear that it was over, but he just had to keep pushing until the wound was open, bleeding before her. And then he'd –  
  
_No. Can't think about that. _  
  
Spike shoved at the railing so hard that for a second he thought he might break it and tumble into the canal. The houses reflected brightly on the glassy water, but his reflection was nowhere to be seen. "Fuck it," he growled and started stalking down the street on the other side.   
  
He rounded a corner and nearly tripped over a couple standing under a streetlight, kissing. Without letting himself get a good look, Spike pushed past them and kept walking. 'Amsterdam is for lovers,' he thought, 'and mine doesn't want me.'  
  
After fifteen minutes of pacing so fast that it kept him from thinking, he stopped for a breather. Didn't need to, but it calmed him down. When his eyes focused again, he noticed that he was in front of a travel shop. He scanned the advertisements, hoping to find something to take his mind off things.  
  
Near the top was the gold and white Eurostar logo. Though he didn't know Dutch, it was close enough to German for him to figure out what the banner said. "Travel from Brussels to London on our luxury trains."   
  
London. No point in going there unless he was going to catch a flight home.  
  
Spike thought about that for a moment, the questions sprinting through his brain. Did he want to go home? Wasn't that the whole point of traveling in this direction? Was Sunnydale even home anymore?  
  
Once he got there, what would happen?   
  
He lit another cigarette out of the pack. As he shoved the cheap replacement lighter back in his pocket, his fingers brushed against the folded e-mail printout from Clem.   
  
Buffy missed him. But did she really? Always second-guessing himself these days. Maybe she'd just wanted someone strong to watch out for Dawn. Maybe she wanted him back so she could stake him for what he'd done. Both thoughts left a bitter taste in his mouth, mingling with the ashy taste of the cigarette. He tossed it to the ground and stamped it out.   
  
Then he remembered that photograph, and how he'd smiled. It was a real smile. Made him feel like a real person. Just thinking about Clem – and maybe Buffy – missing him had put it there.   
  
Reality broke through, and he realized sunrise was coming soon. He looked around and noticed he wasn't too far from the cheap hotel he'd booked.   
  
Spike took the walk back more slowly this time, soaking up those last few minutes of being out in the air before he'd have to lock himself in his room with the drapes closed, and sleep the day away.   
  
As he walked, he thought about that first question: did he want to go home? He started making a list of reasons why it was a good idea.  
  
Buffy. He remembered taunting her last year, gleefully reminding her of all the men who left her. And he'd left her too. Even if she hated him, he wanted to be there for her. He loved her enough to handle whatever she threw at him.  
  
The crypt. He had a decent place there. Half of it was still uninhabitable, but he'd had fun making it posh last summer. Might be fun again.  
  
Fighting the fight. Killing things that deserved to die. Wearing the white hat. Strange to think of that as a plus, but it held a certain appeal now. Maybe that was because of the soul.  
  
Friends, like Clem. He still had a soft spot for the demon. Hell, Clem had made that tacky web page for him. Felt good to have at least one person in the world who wanted him around. He didn't much fancy starting over somewhere else.  
  
Sunnydale. A place where even if the Scoobies hated him, Spike could at least be out and about without having to pretend he wasn't a vampire. The Hellmouth was good for things like him. Let him be what he was. Plus, definite bonus points for easily-available blood, instead of having to hunt it down over here.  
  
Dawn. He loved the kid. He could still remember that look of disappointment on his face, but, for some reason, it didn't bring him down. She'd forgiven him far worse in those days last summer when he was out of his mind with grief. As long as she didn't know about the thing with Buffy, they'd be fine.  
  
Buffy. God, he missed her. It all came down to that.  
  
The front entrance to the hotel loomed before him. Spike pulled open the door and headed up to his small room.  
  
Maybe tomorrow he'd call about a train to London.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Negotiating transport to Brussels had given him a headache that rivaled the one he would've gotten if he could've just thrown a punch at the booking agent on the other end of the phone line. After nearly an hour of hashing through the details, the only vampire-friendly solution he'd found was to take the last night train from Amsterdam and camp out in the Eurostar lounge at Midi Station until the train tomorrow night.  
  
Spike slammed the phone down. At least it was almost dusk.   
  
The backpack was getting heavy, and it looked the worse for wear. Best thing about getting back to Sunnydale was that he'd be able to light a fire and burn it to ashes. He was sick of lugging the damned thing around.  
  
He dumped the contents onto the bed. The photographs fanned out on the coverlet. He grabbed those first and put them in a side pocket. Definitely had to keep those.   
  
God, he'd accumulated a lot of shit in three weeks. Half of it went into the trash bin. When he'd shoved the keepers back in the bag, a small booklet caught his eye. Angelika's address book.   
  
It'd been so long since he'd been in Cairo that he had nearly forgotten it. He flipped it open and stared at her address. Good Lord, she had lived in Amsterdam. Not too far from here, either, from what he could tell.  
  
Spike glanced over at the clock. The sun had set. He could leave. But as he looked at the address book in his hand, he realized he had something to do first.  
  
With a "good riddance," he left the hotel room and went downstairs to settle his bill. Still felt weird to sign those charge slips, but at least money wasn't an issue... until he checked his pockets. Almost out of cash.  
  
A few doors down, he saw a bank with a cash machine and withdrew thirty Euros. Should be enough pocket change to get him through Brussels, and then he'd have to deal with good old pounds sterling in London.  
  
One more place to go before Centraal Station.  
  
As he neared her address, the tourists thinned out and were replaced by locals on bicycles. Her apartment building was easy to spot: bland post-war concrete and steel. He stared up at it for a few minutes.  
  
He knew he didn't want to go in. Probably wouldn't get an invite anyway. But he hated the temptation to turn around and leave. He could still hear her voice as she'd asked to give him something. He could still hear her son's voice during that phone call when Spike had told him of his mother's death.   
  
"You ponce," he muttered to himself. "Gonna let yourself be cowed by this? Hardly."  
  
Spike rummaged in his backpack for a pencil and one of the paperbacks he'd bought in Berlin. He tore a blank leaf from the back and wrote a short message.  
  
_I spoke with you on the telephone two weeks ago. I told you about Mrs. Marken's death. She gave me this before she died. Accept my condolences.  
  
Yours,  
A friend._

He was surprised by how easy it was to write the words. He was even more surprised that he meant them.  
  
Tucking the paper inside the address book, he laid it on the front doorstep. Someone would find and deliver it.  
  
Spike started walking away, then he realized he wanted one last thing.  
  
He walked back to the building and stood across the canal, pulling the camera out of the bag. When he raised it to his face, some passersby gave him odd looks. Spike ignored them.   
  
Framing the front entrance in the viewfinder, he pushed the button and caught the photograph before it dropped to the ground. It was pretty stupid as mementos went, but he put it in the side pocket with all the other snapshots. Just a little something to remember it all.  
  
Spike headed toward the train station. Time to begin the last leg of the trip home.  
  
  
  


* * *

END, Chapter Twelve

  
  



	13. London

* * *

**Ten Thousand**  
by wisteria

_13. London_  


* * *

  
The ballpoint pen scraped so hard as he wrote that the paper finally tore. Spike grit his teeth as he wadded it up and tossed it aside to join the collection of abandoned drafts. The to-and-fro rocking of the train didn't help either. His handwriting came out sloppy and disjointed. Barely legible, not that the words themselves made much sense either.   
  
Obviously this whole writing-a-letter thing was not meant to be, but he persisted anyway. Oh, he knew he'd never mail the letter to Buffy. Too much potential for a shitload of trouble. Still, best be prepared.  
  
Prepared.  
  
Oh, please. He turned the word over in his head then glanced down at his hands and legs, half-expecting to see that he'd turned into some git like Buffy's watcher. That'd be a fate worse than death, and he should know. What the hell was he doing using words like "prepared" or even phrases that began with "best be"? If that was a nasty side-effect of the soul, then he wondered if there was some medication he could take.  
  
As the train finally entered the tunnel under the English Channel, the lights in the car shifted. It'd been twilight outside before, but now the outside was nearly black and the overhead lights were bright fluorescent. "Make me look dead," he remembered telling Buffy.   
  
Another problem, that. Since when did vampires take the bloody Chunnel? Hell, since when did they travel coach or have backpacks to stow under their seats? Or a credit card, for that matter?  
  
Since when did they write letters to their lovers, using words like, "I'm sorry I –" and "I hope that someday—"? Not just that, but lovers who were the bloody Slayer?  
  
God, he was a fucking pathetic excuse for a vampire.  
  
He wanted to toss things around the cabin, to scream, maybe even grab another passenger and hold him hostage. Better yet, take the whole car hostage.   
  
When he clenched his fists and glared up at the ceiling, he found himself seized with laughter. Loud laughter, no less, like an idiot.  
  
Once the laughing finally subsided, he glanced around and noticed the woman across the aisle staring at him. "Sod off," he shot back with a sneer. She gave him a dirty look and turned back to her magazine.  
  
He looked around at the other passengers who were apparently trying to ignore him. None of them looked appetizing anyway, nor did he really want to bite them.  
  
Spike chalked that up to having finished the last of the blood that morning in Brussels. He was running on fumes now, which was obviously making him divvy.   
  
With perfect timing, a young woman pushed a beverage trolley past. Spike paid for some tea, and gave her a smile and a "Thanks, love," along with a Euro. She barely nodded a response, already halfway down the aisle.   
  
"So much for the old Spike charm," he thought as he took a sip, then had to keep himself from spitting it back out. Stuff tasted like piss. He'd give up the necessary blood-buying excursion if he could just get a decent cuppa when he reached London.  
  
That made him laugh again, though quieter this time. He looked down at the remainder of the paper, then shoved it in his bag. Since when were vampires more concerned with tea than blood?  
  
_Bloody awful excuse for a vampire, Spike._  
  
He was surprised to realize that he didn't really care.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Spike didn't know what to make of London. After he'd been turned, he'd never wanted to go back. Drusilla would whine about wanting to visit once or twice a decade. Whenever she did, he'd find an excuse or suggest a more interesting place to go, though a few times she won out. Never could resist her.   
  
The place gave him the wiggins, though. He couldn't pin down just why, except that perhaps it represented too much of the old him. William. Everything he didn't want to be.  
  
As he stood at the edge of Trafalgar Square, swatting away pigeons and ignoring the tourists still mulling about at one in the morning, he thought about the last time he'd been here as a human, over a hundred years earlier. Couldn't remember exactly what he'd been doing, but he could still recall the way things had felt. Everything had been covered in soot, with a cacophony of street vendors and rickety carriages. Now, though, most of the buildings had been scrubbed free of grime, and the vendors had gone home for the night, their t-shirts and magazines packed away.   
  
He wouldn't be able to see it in daylight, but Spike knew that if he were to come back at noon, it would all be tourists. Few locals probably ever came here anymore. Hell, the National Gallery behind him even had a gift shop now. Wasn't his London anymore, not that the city had ever really been his. Was just a place he'd lived once upon a time. Could've been anywhere. He'd lived such a sheltered life back when he'd been one of the living.  
  
Spike shifted on his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets, waiting for the sodding N5 to show up. A moment of panic when he realized he'd forgotten to get a bus transfer on the N1 from Waterloo, then he remembered that this wasn't New York. Just one ticket here. Much easier. The bus was taking its own sweet time, though, and he was about ready to just walk all the way to Camden himself. Sure, it'd take a couple of hours, but he had enough time before sunrise.  
  
When he finally gave up and started walking toward Charing Cross, the bus rumbled up. Spike nearly tripped over himself sprinting to catch it, and only his strong grip kept him from flying off when he grabbed the pole at the back entrance. He swerved down the aisle and found an empty bench, then sprawled across it lest some punter try to take the other seat.  
  
The bus ambled north up Charing Cross, past all the bookshops. People were still out and about, though the crowds were beginning to thin.  
  
This was the time of night he'd always liked best in the old days. Easy pickings for a good meal, with lots of dark alleyways for dumping a corpse. Anonymity was a vampire's friend.  
  
Though the steel walls of the bus insulated him from most of the noise outside, he picked up on the voices of some of the people walking past. They called out each other's names, asked if there was still time to hit the pub before last call, teased and catcalled the opposite sex. Not much anonymity in that.  
  
Leaning his head against the window, he watched as the crowds thinned out through the university area and then pick up again as they reached Euston. The stop-and-start motion of the bus lulled him into a daze, and he found that he rather liked it. It was so calming that he jerked back with a start when he recognized Camden.  
  
As he leapt off the bus and hustled down the street trying to get his lucidity back, he could almost feel the coat billowing around him the way it used to do. For the past few weeks, he'd been glad to be rid of the coat. Felt more free without it. Now he missed its sense of menace, of being something bigger than himself.  
  
He knew he had plenty of time, but the quick pace flowed through him like a phantom pulse. With each step, he could almost feel himself shaking off the swamp his mind had been on the bus.  
  
D'Var was just where the Calabra demon he'd seen outside Waterloo told him it would be. The grapevine was strong, and all Spike had had to do was sidle up to him and ask where to score fresh meat. At least something had been easy for once.  
  
He pushed the front door open and felt the odd shift of entering a different world. Some Grapple demons laughed around a table, and a couple of vampires circled a pool table. Others too, but Spike was too set on getting to the bar to bother classifying them.   
  
The barkeep was a Ka'ta demon with at least a dozen piercings, Medusa hair, and a surly attitude thrown in for good measure. "What'll you have, bastard?" she asked with a sneer.  
  
He really, really didn't have time for this. Oh, sure, he had all the time in the world, but patience had left him a long ways back. With his best glare, he said, "Was told this was the place to pick up some blood."  
  
She didn't pause from wiping down the counter. "Lots of people out there just asking for a snack. Find a goth, alright? They'd most likely offer 'emselves right up."  
  
His eyes rolled toward the moldy ceiling, Spike pulled some bills from the wad he'd exchanged at Thomas Cook. "I wouldn't wish that crowd of punk and rave rejects on a fledgling. 'Sides, McDonald's is closed and I'm craving pork. Slip us some piggy juice, love."  
  
When she didn't answer, he had to ball his fists to keep from reaching over the counter and yanking that silver bar out of her eyebrow. Bar fights weren't his style anymore. He grit his teeth and growled, "Look, are you going to hand it over or not?"   
  
"Knickers. Twist. Look into it." But she ducked under the bar and emerged with a jar of red. "That's all we've got right now. Dvero will be here tomorrow night, if you want more."  
  
Spike shoved the bills across the bar and watched them fly onto the floor. Didn't bother with a 'thanks' as he grabbed the jar and stalked back out onto the street.  
  
Problem solved. Well, at least one of them was.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
As the doors shut with a rumble and a whoosh, he closed his eyes and tried to call the next stop by memory. Last one was Moorgate, so the next would be Barbican. Opened them and checked. Ah, correct. Still got the touch.  
  
This was his third go 'round the Circle Line, unquestionably the most boring of all Underground lines. Ranked down there in the seventh circle of hell, along with the murderers and mercenaries. Rather like him, really. Didn't those get an eternity of submersion in hot blood? Might be fun, except the heat would get boring after a century or two.  
  
Still, as depressing as the Circle Line was, it was also completely subterranean. No pesky sunlight to spoil things except at a couple of stops, and on his first go he'd figured out how to shift his seat to avoid the rays. Some would call this endless loop "soul-sucking," but last time he'd checked, the soul was still lurking around inside. If it hadn't been yanked out of him yet, it was probably around to stay.   
  
No matter how awful it was, it gave him something to do. Ten hours of attempted sleep in his dodgy room in a B&B near Euston Square were enough to drive him nearly mad. When he wasn't tossing and turning on the cheap, foul-smelling mattress, the nightmares invaded. Formless, chaotic ones, full of rivers of blood and mouths opened in screams.  
  
Yeah, going around in circles was definitely an improvement.  
  
Spike watched the people come and go. Some stayed a bit; others hopped on and off. He could tell from the start which they would do, just by whether they sat or stood. Got a few dirty looks from how he sprawled out over on the bench, but better that than letting some punter sit next to him and risk absorbing secondhand pathetic vibes.   
  
At Barbican, a woman came on and sat opposite. The car was half-empty, though he knew it would fill up soon when the after-work rush began. She was a curious sort – long dress, hair pulled up with a clip, dark spots under her eyes. Probably an artist or the like. As he'd done with a few others this afternoon, his idle mind began to make up a history for her.  
  
Gray smudges on her fingers, though she didn't have a portfolio. Probably a sculptor, then. Looked like the classical type, all Greco-Roman busts and finely-detailed musculature. An art student, or else she lacked imagination. Clothes were shabby, so she didn't do it commercially. She opened a book and began reading. Spike only saw the top half of the jacket – something about women and loving too much. He could see the disappointment in her eyes, in the way she would dog-ear pages as if taking notes for further study.   
  
He was almost tempted to ask if he could borrow the book. Loving women too much? He knew the drill. Been marching in that parade all his days.  
  
When the train approached Euston Square, he thought about getting off but quickly dismissed the idea. Sitting here and people-watching was far more interesting than lying on a hotel bed and fending off nightmares.  
  
After a few more stops, the woman stood to leave. He wondered where she was going next. Maybe to find that man – or woman – she loved too much. It was funny, he thought, how a few years ago he would've followed her off for a snack. Now he was tempted to wish her luck. Someone should be lucky in love, even if it wasn't him.  
  
Was he unlucky, though? He thought about that for a while.   
  
He'd spent all those months pining after Buffy, totally convinced he would never have her. And it had been okay with him. Being around her was enough. Sure, he wanted her so much it choked him, but he'd coped. Then, when he did have her, it was never enough. Had to have all of her, even though deep down he'd known he never would. Kept pushing until he finally went too far and hurt her terribly.  
  
The words echoed in his mind: _Slayer, vampire. Vampire kills Slayer, sucks her dry, etcetera. _ Wasn't supposed to be the way it was with Buffy. That was unnatural, but he loved her all the same.  
  
He let himself imagine what could happen when he got back. Maybe she'd forgive him if he were lucky. He was smart enough to know he'd never have her again, and maybe it would be enough just to be around her.   
  
During one of those frantic times after he'd awakened from another nightmare, he thought about all she'd done to him. "Big sis was treating me so well up to then," he'd sarcastically told Dawn all those weeks ago. So damned easy to forgive it of her, though. He loved her. It was that simple.  
  
Afternoon slid into rush hour, and the train began to fill again. He kept going around in circles, though. Just like with Buffy. Get his hopes up, have 'em dashed. He began to hope that she could forgive him what he'd done. Maybe they could be friends, and he decided that was enough. He'd lived through worse.   
  
Maybe this time he could break the pattern. Be happy with what he had. Avoid the inevitable fallout.   
  
He could feel himself moving up Dante's hierarchy, toward somewhere near Purgatory. If he waited long enough and kept his confidence when he got home, maybe someday he'd move up to Heaven.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
He circled the pool table full-on, staring down the Grapple demon who was shooting sparks with its eyes. A taunt, a feint left, then a quick sprint around. The demon grabbed the cue and shoved it toward Spike, who deflected it with a flick of his wrist like swatting away a mosquito. Grapples were always good for a fight; they got pissed off at the stupidest things, like Spike refusing to step down when he lost his turn during the game.  
  
Oh, God, this was good. After nearly four weeks of wandering lost and confused through Africa and Europe, he was back in familiar territory.  
  
Problem with Grapples was that they gave up too easily. The demon dropped the cue and walked away, and Spike was left wondering whether to go after him or just move along.  
  
Then the absurdity of the situation hit him. He didn't give up on fights that he could easily win. When he ran away, it was because he knew the odds weren't in his favor. That was smarts, not cowardice. He didn't give up on a fight because he just didn't care anymore. Never had been his style.  
  
The demon went over to the bar and started chatting up the barkeep. She'd been so surly to Spike last night, but now her face lit up with the beginnings of a good flirt. She almost looked beautiful.   
  
Spike looked around the bar, wondering what to do now. None of the other demons looked worth chatting up. He could categorize each one of them, count battles fought and alliances formed with their genii over a hundred and twenty years. He could speak many of their languages and sustain a conversation over a pint or two of blood and whisky.  
  
This was supposed to be his crowd.  
  
He found that he had nothing he wanted to say to any of them.   
  
These were the predators, the underbelly-lurkers. The ones who fed on the human populace and caused reporters to write stories about mysterious murders in Kensington and the City and Whitechapel. God knows Spike had done enough to fill a thousand crime blotters over the years.   
  
But for the past two years, he hadn't been one of them. He took a sip of his pint of blood and realized that he didn't want to be.   
  
The knowledge prickled up his spine, spreading its claws along his muscles and bones. Smothered his chest until he remembered that he chose to breathe instead of needing to.   
  
'Gotta get out of here,' he thought with a twitch.  
  
He made it halfway to the door before remembering why he'd even come back to this club in the first place. He went back to the bar and called for some service. The barkeep looked up from where she was practically undressing her Grapple beau with her eyes.  
  
"Need the rest of the blood now." He thought about adding a "love", but even if it was just an offhand term, he sure as hell didn't love her. She was just an irritation, a demon he didn't want to see anymore.   
  
With an expected eye-roll, she held out her hand for his cash, then she walked over to the fridge and pulled out a half-dozen bags. Dropped them in a plastic sack and handed it over.  
  
Without another word, Spike left.  
  
A faint mist blanketed his face as he stepped out into the London night. He thought about going back to the hotel, but Camden was wide-awake and so was he.   
  
Walked about a block until he saw a very ordinary pub. It stood out in a neighborhood of Goths and hipsters, and its familiarity was strangely comforting. He was in the mood for ordinary now.  
  
When Spike walked through the door, the acrid scent of barley and alcohol assaulted his nose. It was divine. The barkeep pulled him a pint of some brew – he didn't ask the name – and he found a seat at a banquette near the far wall.   
  
He looked around at the Thursday night crowd. Anonymous people laughing and telling stories. Unwinding after another day at work or mourning the loss of a few quid on the horses. No thoughts of demons or vampires. Probably didn't even know they existed.   
  
The demon thing? Spike finally knew it wasn't his world anymore. Not that this one was either – different culture, with people oblivious of vampires and hellmouths and all the darkness lurking underground. But although D'Var was filled with non-humans like him, this tacky pub in Camden felt more like his sort of place. It was a facsimile of home, like a faded photocopy of Sunnydale tinted with the rain of a London summer.  
  
He missed the California sunlight. Not the UV rays themselves, of course, but just that feeling it brought out in him. Demons and humans coexisting, the latter deliberately ignoring or clueless about the former. A place where he could pop down to the butcher for a pint of blood as if it was completely normal. His world, where he didn't have to think about whether demon bars or the Bronze was more real. They both were. He'd straddled the worlds like a Colossus. For the past two years his balance had slipped and in slow-motion he fell toward the human side.   
  
Distance made the heart grow fonder, didn't it? He wanted to go home.   
  
Sunnydale was his home. It had everything he needed. Butchers, clubs, and two girls he loved, who could make him feel warm and bright with a rare smile. They were all the sun he wanted.  
  
Spike thought about pulling the camera out and asking one of the blokes nearby to take a photo. It was pointless, though. He knew what the photo would show.   
  
The barkeep announced last call. Spike drank his beer, not really wanting another. He watched the other patrons make their way to the bar. The beer flowed down his throat, warming him.  
  
This pub wasn't home, but it would do for tonight.  
  
Tomorrow he'd go to the airport and do better. He wanted to go home.  
  
  
  


* * *

END, Chapter Thirteen  


  
  
  



	14. Home

* * *

**Ten Thousand**  
by wisteria

_14. Home_  


* * *

  


Spike could just imagine the U.S. Customs officials' reactions to his luggage. "You spent nearly four weeks outside of the country, and all you have now is one backpack?"   
  
Maybe he should've acquired more stuff. He looked over the array spread out on the hotel bed: nearly thirty photographs, two cameras, CD player and discs, an umbrella, gloves, and a half-dozen books. With a thud, three of the books joined the pile of junk in the corner.   
  
Loud laughter from the telly caught his attention. He glanced up at the sitcom he'd been half-watching to make the time pass faster. Looked to be some Brit ripoff of "Friends", though the dialogue was racier. He'd never much liked comedies – soap opera melodrama was far more his style – but this one had caught his eye because one of the actresses was the spitting image of Drusilla. Even sounded like her. He'd stared at the show for ten minutes before convincing himself it was someone else.   
  
He wondered what Dru was up to these days. Strange how he didn't miss her one bit. He knew she wasn't dust, though. When that happened, he'd just _know_. Still tied, they were, even if the thread was now worn and frayed.  
  
She was part of the old world, anyway, and he didn't want to go back there. _All about moving forward now, _he reminded himself. _Gonna make a change, even if....  
_  
With a grimace, he cut off that train of thought. Eleven hours in the air was more than enough time to think about all that. Not much else to do up there anyway.  
  
Spike turned back to the junk on the bed. As he picked up the cameras, he thought about tossing the digital. Bloody waste of money; he hadn't used it once. Still, he couldn't bring himself to toss it. He stuffed it in the backpack. Maybe he'd give it to Clem as a thanks for taking care of stuff back home. The demon would probably love it.  
  
Once almost everything was in the bag, he spread the photographs out on the coverlet. Most of them made him cringe. All those shots of him looking like a fool, the flash and his forced smile making him resemble a jack-o-lantern. "Toss 'em or keep 'em?" he asked aloud.  
  
Two photos stood out: the ghastly first snapshot from Prague, and his grin at the 'net café in Amsterdam. The others were horrid, but those two felt real. Wasn't that why he'd bought the camera in the first place – to see the _real _him?   
  
Finally, he slipped those two pics in his backpack and tossed the rest in the rubbish heap.   
  
A glance at the window told him that the sun had finally set behind the thick curtains. About damned time. Ever since last night, he'd been jumping out of his skin, ready to get on the road – or in the air, as the case may be.  
  
He'd have to camp out overnight at Heathrow, but it had to beat sitting in this depressing hotel room any longer. According to the agent at Thomas Cook, the noon flight to LAX was an $800 "bargain". Damned time zones didn't allow for any nighttime flights. Maybe the airport would inspire him to figure out a way to avoid the sunlight on the plane. Charming the flight attendants had worked last time. With any luck, it'd work again.  
  
Definitely time to get out of here. He was sick of the stasis of travel. Sure, monsters awaited in Sunnydale, but he was smart. Confidence flowed through him now. He'd kick their asses.  
  
Puffed up with a strange sense of excitement, he picked up the bag and walked out the door.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Thank God this was the last buggering train he'd be riding on for a long while. If he survived the next apocalypse and the only transportation option was the rail system, he'd just walk.   
  
The damned Piccadilly line was taking forever to get out to Heathrow. Last stop had been South Ealing, and when he looked up at the route map, he saw there were still another eight stops to go.  
  
Temporary insanity had caused him to choose the Tube over a taxi to the airport. One last train ride for posterity. Seemed like a good idea at the time. He'd forgotten how the jerky motion of the rails rattled his bones. If Sunnydale was the hellmouth, then trains were hell's intestines.  
  
Tuning out the other passengers' noise didn't work. Some asshole had been harassing a woman for the past three stops. "C'mon, love. You know you want a bit of knees-up with me," the bloke cooed. The woman kept protesting. Bully for her.  
  
A loud female scream made Spike wince. Bully, indeed. The hooligan was now in her face, his hands grabbing her shoulders as he screamed insults at her. Abject fear spread over her face. "Take me back, Karen! Please!" was quickly followed with, "You whore!"   
  
Spike blinked as nausea coiled in his belly. _Oh, God._ He panted by reflex. _Oh, holy fucking shit! _  
  
_Terror spreading over Buffy's face as he gripped her shoulders. "I'm gonna make you feel it!" Pushing his knee between her legs. Grabbing at her robe. She only let herself love him when he was inside her. Gotta make her feel, gotta be inside. Love me, love me. Take me back!_  
  
Dazed and shivering, Spike unclenched his fists and saw blood blooming in the crescents left by his fingernails.   
  
The woman screamed as the man continued to yell and paw at her.   
  
Fight or flight instinct seized Spike. He'd never been one to flee, but now he wanted to throw himself off the train and find a corner where he could sob and bleed until spent. Even with his eyes shut, he could see that woman's face. It shifted into Buffy's.   
  
'Gotta make it right this time.' The thought came out of nowhere and fought the nausea and pain. Hadn't the past weeks taught him anything? "You get to make yourself good enough for the Slayer," Whistler had said all those nights ago. Was he good enough now?   
  
He opened his eyes and felt strength flood through him. Almost there. Not good enough yet, but he could be.  
  
Bracing himself against the train's motion and his own inevitable migraine, Spike stalked over to the bastard. His first instinct was to lash out with words. Read the asshole the riot act. But he'd been that man before. Still was, deep down, as much as the soul tried to overcome it. He knew that fists worked better than words when fighting a beast.  
  
As he pulled his arm back, Spike felt a rush of power mixed with something he thought might be righteousness. It was strange, both ennobling and foreign. He'd suss it out later, though. More pressing matters to attend to.   
  
Spike threw all his strength into the right hook, and he felt the man's eye socket shatter with the impact. The man crumpled to the ground, knocked unconscious.   
  
The chip still did its evil magic, throwing Spike backwards into the bench. He couldn't help but roar at the migraine coupled with the sting of the spot where his back had hit a metal bar. Yet even as the pain screamed inside him, he still felt the power. It was almost good.  
  
He wondered if he'd made it right this time. Punching a potential rapist in the Tube couldn't begin to atone for what he'd done to Buffy, but maybe it was a start. Maybe it was all just a series of steps, like doing the right thing tonight. Apologizing to Buffy when he saw her again. Striving to be a person worthy of her, even if she couldn't love him back. Getting a soul to keep him from ever hurting her again.  
  
When he heard "Stand clear of the doors" over the loudspeaker, he realized that the train had come to a stop. He hadn't noticed; his body was still shaking.   
  
Spike looked over at the unconscious man on the floor, then up at the woman shivering with sobs. She looked up at him, and though she didn't say thank you, he saw it in her face.  
  
"I'm sorry," Spike muttered. But instead of the woman across the train, he was apologizing to a woman five thousand miles away.  
  
Another step.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
By the time he'd made it through check-in at the British Airways counter at Heathrow, his body had stopped shaking and he felt almost normal again.   
  
It was half-ten, but a handful of shops were still open. He decided to take advantage of the fact; gave him something to do before he'd have to settle in for the long wait.   
  
Spike realized he had no gifts for Buffy and Dawn. Wasn't that what humans did when they traveled? Buy lots of souvenirs that nobody wanted? He definitely wasn't human, but he'd been traveling, after all. He could almost hear Dawn's voice asking, "What'd ya bring me?"  
  
If he were lucky, they'd forgive him when he got home. If he were really lucky, they'd take him back into the fold. Spike didn't know how much luck he deserved, but he could at least make them smile. If he could only get that, he'd be happy.  
  
What to get, though? Since he wouldn't be going through Customs until just before the flight, duty-free was out of the question. Sure, he planned to stock up on cigs and some top-notch whiskey and Scotch, but he doubted Buffy would appreciate either. He went into a shop full of Brit-themed goods then promptly left. Everything was beyond appalling.  
  
The green-and-yellow shop looked like the safest bet. Spike cringed when he entered; it was full of girly stuff like lotions and perfumes. He'd never figured out why women loved all that crap, but they did anyway, so he browsed for something suitable. Dawn would probably like a gift basket. He grabbed the first one he saw, not really knowing which was her favorite scent.   
  
Buffy was more difficult. She'd always tried to cover it up with myriad synthetic perfumes, but her own scent was so much more beautiful. In the curve of her knee, the small of her back, she smelled of spices, the tang of sweat, of warm blood and life. No chemicals could cover that.   
  
She liked them, though, so he picked up the biggest gift basket he could find. Spike had no idea what "moonflower" was, but it seemed like her. She was his night rose. Always would be, even if she were never his again.  
  
Panic ensued when he went to the till and couldn't find his credit card. Nearly turned out his pockets until he remembered sticking it in his backpack for some stupid reason. Though he had few new possessions to show for it, he'd blown a good chunk of change over the past few weeks. Still, he had enough left to make Buffy's life easier. When he got home, he'd call Visa and add her name to the card. Maybe stick it in a bag with the lotion stuff. And just maybe she'd get off her high horse long enough to accept it in the spirit in which it was intended.  
  
Airports were supposed to be depressing places, weren't they? He remembered once hearing someone say that in a movie. As depressing as Heathrow might be to some, it was making him downright hopeful.  
  
The gifts didn't fit in his backpack, so he walked through the terminal with his head high and a sack in his hand. Let everyone laugh at him for carrying a bag full of obviously girly stuff. Never would see 'em again anyway.  
  
A glance at the departures monitors showed that he still had twelve more hours of waiting. At least the bar was still open for a bit longer. A beer or four would dull his senses and help him sleep later. Strange how he used to drink to dull the pain and forget it all. Now he wanted to drink to make the time pass more quickly until he was able to go home.  
  
This new world of his was a strange place. At that moment, he liked it.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
A good dose of charm worked every time. Still had the touch. He almost patted himself on the back.   
  
Getting through the gate and onto the plane had been a dodgy prospect until he told two flight attendants a sob story about his deadly sun allergy. He didn't know whether his good looks or the prospect of "pus-filled blisters, smoke comin' out of my ears and pain like you wouldn't believe, love," had done the trick, but one of them had approached his seat shortly after takeoff and said that she was working on a way to get him up to first class or at least Club World. Spike had shifted the blanket just enough to make eye-contact, and he gave her his best smile and a "Thanks, pet." Would've kissed her to sweeten the deal, but she flounced away before he had to resort to that.  
  
When a hand from the seat next to him tapped his arm, Spike had to bite back a growl. That upgrade couldn't come soon enough. He was stuck in a row with two kids whose age couldn't possibly be in the double-digits. Brother and sister traveling alone. Of course. Whining too. Where the hell were the parents to tell them to shut the hell up?  
  
The boy kept tapping until Spike finally looked at him. "Pull the shade down," he snapped.   
  
A few seconds later, he heard, "It's done, sir!"  
  
Spike moved the blanket a few inches and was assaulted by the sight of two huge brown eyes and a shock of red hair. The boy babbled, "I'm Harry! Well, my name is really Henry, but I changed it so I could be just like Harry Potter. I've seen that movie twenty-three times. Have you seen it? My stupid sister says I should change my name to Ron because I have red hair, but who wants to be him? What's your name?"  
  
"Your worst nightmare" was on the tip of Spike's tongue, but he bit it back. Wouldn't do to make an enemy of a seatmate. The brat would probably start crying and make the rest of the trip miserable. So he muttered, "It's Spike."   
  
"Really? That's an odd name. You look odd too. Why do you have that blanket? Are you trying to sleep? Hannah is asleep, and that's why I'm mad at her. She's supposed to play games with me. That's what Mum said we could do on the flight. They're up in first class right now."  
  
With a long-suffering sigh, Spike said, "That's where I'm trying to go." _So I can get away from you,_ he mentally added.  
  
Harry took a breath then kept on babbling. "You're going to first class? I'm going to Disneyland. My dad has to do business in California, and he said that me and Mum could spend four whole days at Disney. But not Hannah. She's mean."  
  
Spike figured he'd done his duty, so he let the blanket drape back around him. Unfortunately, the kid had destroyed any potential for sleep during the flight. After trying for ten minutes, he finally pulled the backpack into his lap and started rummaging for a book to read.   
  
When he realized the books were at the bottom of the bag, he gritted his teeth. He pulled down the tray table and started taking out stuff to get to the books.  
  
Another tap on his arm. "What?" Spike growled again.  
  
Harry chirped, "Oh, you have a camera! That's cool! Can I play with it?"   
  
"Have a go," Spike said in hopes it would shut the kid up.   
  
Once the book was out, he reached up to turn on the small overhead light. Then he noticed that most of the shades in this part of the cabin were down. Safe for the time being. He let the blanket fall to his shoulders, which he rolled to get out the kinks. Travel was a bitch.   
  
He glanced over at the boy, who was enraptured with the camera. Spike let himself really look at the kid this time. The sister was still asleep, but Harry was wide awake, innocence and curiosity shining in his face. Young brows knit, he pushed at buttons and studied the old Polaroid.   
  
Something in Spike melted. He wondered if Buffy had ever been this young and inquisitive. Free of the burden of slaying, before the horrors of her life had squashed her spirit. A smile flickered across his lips as he imagined what she must have looked like. Blond hair in pigtails, green eyes wide, maybe wearing overalls with mud caked on the knees. Her whole life ahead of her, just like this little boy next to him.  
  
Suddenly, Spike found himself telling the kid, "Keep the camera. I don't need it anymore. Take lots of pictures of Mickey Mouse."  
  
The shouts of "Thank you!" made Spike wince, but he didn't mind so much this time. He reached back in the bag for the remaining two packs of film, then slipped them into the seatback pocket.   
  
"How do you...?" Harry began, then his voice trailed away as small fingers fumbled with the strap.   
  
Hidden reserves of patience helped Spike stay calm as he showed Harry how to pull up the flash and peek through the viewfinder. "Take a picture of me to practice."  
  
Harry's hands wobbled under the weight of the camera as he aimed. It covered most of his face, but Spike saw a snaggle-toothed grin under the bottom of the black box.   
  
Before Spike had a chance to decide whether or not to smile, the flash exploded in his face.   
  
He couldn't help but grin at the boy's "ooh" and "wow!" as the camera spit out the photograph. Spike showed him how to shake the picture to make it develop.   
  
Harry peered at the emerging image. "You look weird."  
  
"That's just the picture doing its magic, kid. I'm not weird." The words came out before Spike realized it. He decided not to bother trying to suss it out.   
  
"You keep this," Harry said as he handed over the photograph.  
  
Spike looked down at it, surprised to see that he didn't look weird at all. If anything, he looked utterly boring. No smile, but no frown either. Just a man with pale skin and hair, and an unusual look of peace on his face.  
  
Imagine that.  
  
He kept staring as Harry played with the camera. The flight attendant's voice was a surprise. "Sir, something very fortunate has happened. You're quite lucky. These children's mother told my colleague in first class that she wants to sit with them for a while, so you're welcome to switch seats with her. It's far more posh up there. You'll enjoy it."   
  
Spike returned her smile. "Thanks, love." Harry might've melted him a bit, but first class was enough to overcome the feeling. Plus, avoiding sunlight in one of those fancy demi-cabins was far preferable to huddling under a blanket for another nine hours.  
  
He gathered his stuff and picked up the backpack. When he looked over at Harry, the boy was busy aiming the camera to take a picture of his sleeping sister. Spike stood and followed the flight attendant down the narrow aisle, doing an awkward dance with the children's mother as she squeezed past him.   
  
"Thank you for trading seats with me," she told him with a friendly smile. Spike noticed that she treated him like any average person. He was surprised to realize that it didn't make him uncomfortable.  
  
He nodded at her, then continued on to first class.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The wind whipped through his hair as he flew down the highway. Really should do something about it; four weeks without peroxide or styling stuff hadn't been kind to the 'do. Still, he liked the way he could feel the wind all the way down to the roots. Gave everything a feeling of wild speed.  
  
Getting back on his old bike after all that time abroad had been great. Less welcome was the triple-digit long term parking tab at the airport. He'd argued with the clerk, but it was either pay the tab or walk home, and he wouldn't have gotten very far before sunrise.  
  
While waiting for sunset back at the airport bar, he'd had a few drinks. Just for fortification's sake, of course. He'd been so confident since he left London, yet when he'd emerged from the Customs Hall into the late afternoon heat of Los Angeles International, he'd realized that this was it. No going back. Time to face whatever was coming to him.  
  
First, he'd needed a drink. Spike had told himself it was to while away the time until darkness fell, but deep down he knew it was just bloody cowardice. Once again, he'd thought of those words back in Whistler's apartment. Was he good enough for her now? As he turned that over in his mind, he realized that being good enough for her wasn't the issue. Hadn't seen her in nearly four weeks. He'd passed through a dozen countries, met tons of people, some of them idiots and some of them very much worth knowing. Found his family again. Even made some friends. Hadn't wanted to bite a single one of them, even if he could. Hell, he'd helped a few of them out.   
  
Spike knew he'd never be a man, but now he felt like a person.  
  
He thought about that some more as his motorcycle sped down the road to Sunnydale. The route was part of his soul.  
  
That made him laugh, and the air filled his mouth and tingled like mint. Yeah, his soul. Everything around him was part of his soul now. The air, the ocean a few miles away, the whole bloody world and the people and places in it.   
  
Despite the wind roaring through his ears, he could hear Drusilla's voice singing in his head. "Now my birdie is flying for me."   
  
And Spike flew down the road toward home. He remembered the old saying, "If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it's yours." He'd done so many terrible things, the worst one to the woman he loved. He'd thought that getting a soul would smother him, but he wanted it if only to keep himself from hurting her again.  
  
Instead of weighing him down, the soul had set him free. Tonight he was coming back to her. He would always be hers, yet for the first time he knew that he was his own person. The voices in his head continued to sing, but now the voice was his own.  
  
Free.  
  
The headlight lit up a green sign. "Sunnydale – 9 miles."  
  
All that confidence threatened to crash and burn at the sight. He gripped the handlebars until his tendons screamed, lest he be tempted to flee back to LAX and catch the first flight to nowhere. As the engine's hum counted down the miles, he chanted, "Keep going. Just do it."   
  
The mantra had been repeated so many times over the past eight hours that it was permanently tattooed on the folds of his brain. Up in first class, he found himself unable to sleep or read. Kept thinking about what would happen when he got back to Sunnydale. A dozen different scenarios were concocted, each one more hopeful than the last. In the back of his mind he knew that hope was a luxury, but it strengthened him as much as the alcohol had.  
  
By the time the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign appeared on the horizon, he was puffed up and ready to face whatever would happen. He slowed down a little as he approached, tempted to pull over and look at it. Finally decided not to; he had to keep moving, keep soldiering onward. He knew too well that confidence was fleeting.  
  
Yet when he hit downtown, Spike found himself utterly frozen. Jabbed the kickstand with his toe and felt the engine shudder to a standstill. He looked around at the buildings, the handful of people locking up stores and walking home. The Magic Box was a couple of blocks away, but he couldn't go there and see those people, if they were even still around.   
  
Strange how a half-hour earlier he'd been ready to face the world. Now he couldn't even face an empty storefront.   
  
Glancing to his left, he spotted a pay phone. "Yeah," he thought. "Gotta hear her voice, let her know I'm back. If she hangs up on me, at least I'll know. Then I can go back to the crypt, wallow for a few days, then figure out another plan." He knew the reasoning was spurious at best, but it helped.  
  
Digging in his pocket for change, Spike pretended he wasn't nervous as hell. He thought he found a quarter, but when he opened his fist, it was a damned 20p coin. Threw it to the ground with a scowl, then dug around some more until he finally found a quarter and dime.  
  
His hand poised over the coin slot, he took a deep breath then froze again. Damned butterflies danced a tango in his belly. Spots flickering on the backs of his eyelids, he grimaced and growled until he got the confidence back. His brain chanted, "Do it."  
  
Spike could count on one hand the number of times he'd phoned the Summers residence, but he knew the number by heart. He pretended his finger wasn't trembling as he punched the buttons.   
  
One ring, another, and a third. When he heard a click after the fourth ring, he nearly hung up and fled.   
  
Dawn answered – but it wasn't her. Took him a second to realize that it was the answering machine. His nerves stretched to the breaking point, his body deflated and he bit back loud laughter.   
  
As her voice told him to leave a message, he breathed deeply and realized that he hadn't a clue what to say to them. Then a loud beep forced his hand.  
  
"Hello... it's me." A pause as he shook his head at such a stupid greeting. God, all the bravado had fled his voice, and he sounded like an utter git. Try as he might to get back to his old persona, his voice stubbornly stayed faint as he continued, "Spike, I mean. I've been... away... for a while. Missed you two."   
  
As the silence stretched onward, he realized that this was ridiculous. No way could he begin to reconnect with them over a recording on a machine. But as much as he needed to see them, the prospect of doing so right this minute was terrifying. Couldn't go over there tonight, but at least now they knew he was back. He'd wait for Buffy and Dawn's lead. If they wanted to see him, they'd seek him out. If not – well, then, at least he'd know.   
  
Another deep breath, then he said, "Just wanted you to know that I'm home."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
END, "Ten Thousand"  
  
  
NOTES: That's it, folks. Use your imagination for what happens next g. I don't have any sequels planned; then again, I didn't plan a sequel to "Happiness", yet I've ended up with two of them. So, never say never.  
  
I had one main rule for this story: Spike couldn't know about anything that had happened in Sunnydale since he left. No contact with any of them, aside from Clem's cryptic e-mails. Spike had to go through the whole process entirely on his own. That's why I felt it had to end this way.   
  
So many people have helped me with this story that I couldn't begin to thank them all. I do want to thank Kelly for helping me visualize the last scene, Lesley for the UK and Amsterdam fact-checking, Moose and Mezz for fabulous beta, and especially Chris for support and inspiration the whole way through.  
  
I'm leaving Friday for a week's holiday, so if you send e-mail and I don't respond immediately, that's why. I really appreciate everyone who's dropped me a line to tell me you've enjoyed "Ten Thousand", and I hope you enjoyed the conclusion!  
  
And now, on to season seven!  
  
cheers,  
alanna  
  


  
  
  
  



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